Beneath the Shadows
by Melancholy's Child
Summary: In the 1880s, Christine and her father move to Paris for a fresh beginning that is not as joyful as it first seems. When the truth of her new circumstances starts to unravel, only one man can help her. E/C. Kay/ALW-verse. Will eventually be rated M. COMPLETED.
1. Foundation

_After much thought, I've decided to start a new multi-chapter PotO fic. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I can't leave the fandom alone just yet. This is a retelling of the story, set in the 1880s. It combines both Kay and ALW elements, so it's a mismatch of ideas put together in the way that makes the most sense for me._

 _Like all of my multi-chapter fics, this will eventually be rated M for sexual situations._

 _Onward!_

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Foundation**

"Here we are." Charles Daaé set down the two bags he carried and fished inside his coat pocket for a ring of keys. He paused, glancing over his shoulder at the young woman standing behind him. "Ready to see our new home?"

"Ready, Papa." Christine did her best to put a smile on her face. Her heart pounded in a combination of effort from carrying their luggage up five flights of stairs and anticipation of what she might find inside.

They had spent months flitting from one hostel to another, usually tiny rooms that shared a single bathroom with the entire floor. Papa had started his new job as a groundskeeper, moving them both to Paris before they had a permanent place to live. Christine pushed aside her remembrances of some nights spent in the train station or a horse stable. At least now they were finally being allowed to move into the attic apartment above where he worked.

Nodding, he turned the key in the door and swung it open. No matter what they found inside, this building was much nicer than what Christine had grown used to. She had spied pipes for running water, and she was already in love.

Charles did not bother searching for a light switch. "This building is wired for electricity," he explained, "but we will make do with lamps up here." He had come prepared for this and found a lantern inside one of their bags. Soon, he had it lit, and he held it aloft so they could walk inside.

The flickering light cast long shadows across the apartment. Their footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as they made their way inside and closed the door behind them. A small parlor opened before them, and beyond that, Christine could see a cozy kitchen and dining area. Charles walked over to a fireplace and quickly started it up, casting enough light so Christine could take the lantern into the rest of the apartment.

To one side of the main living area, she found two rooms – a bedroom and bathroom. Grinning, she ran her fingertips over the porcelain sink. A real sink, bathtub, and toilet, and all theirs! She hurried to the other side of the parlor where another door lurked and found another room.

"Papa!" she shouted.

He rushed over to her. "What is it, Christine?"

She swept a hand at the room, blue eyes shining happily. "A second bedroom!"

"I told you, didn't I?" he said, shaking his head at her incredulity. "You never believe me unless you see it for yourself, do you?"

"I suppose not," she admitted. She eyed the bed in the room with longing. "It looks so comfortable."

"Unpack first before your clothes start to smell musty. But yes, then bed. I have to report to the manager early in the morning."

He left her to unpack, and she took her single bag into her room. She had little to her name: a few changes of clothes and a small framed picture of her mother. She set this upon the little table beside the bed, then tucked her clothing into the dresser. By the time she put on her dressing gown, she could hear her father's familiar snores from the other bedroom.

She padded to the bathroom and washed her face and teeth, then went back to her bedroom and found the little envelope she had been saving until the right moment. Sitting on her bed, she thumbed open the envelope and slid out the crisp white card.

 _Welcome home, little Lotte!_

 _I cannot wait to see you Wednesday for lunch. I will pick you up at noon. In the meantime, I have a little present waiting for you downstairs. Find the stone bench in the courtyard – the one tucked in the back near the vines._

 _Sleep well,_

 _Raoul_

She pressed the paper to her lips, remembering the last time she had seen Raoul. He had bent over her hand as she had gotten onto the train, his mouth spread wide in a grin, his eyes sparkling with humor. Too many months had passed since they had parted.

But now she and Papa were in Paris; now they would be living in the very building where Raoul himself worked. Raoul had promised that they would spend more time together.

 _Wednesday for lunch_. Only two days away.

Christine clutched the note to her chest, a smile plucking at her lips. Meeting Raoul had been just what she needed after her mother's death. His easy smile and deep chuckle had made her able to get past her initial pain. She thought perhaps her father was relieved that she had attracted the attention of such an influential – and rich – possible suitor. They were not officially courting, but she hoped an announcement would be soon now that she was living in Paris.

Remembering the present he had mentioned, she drew on her slippers and fastened her wrapper tightly around her. The summer nights had been warm, but autumn was quickly approaching, bringing with it a chill upon the breeze.

As quietly as she could, she left the apartment; Papa would not hear her leave over his own snoring. Holding the lantern before her, she crept down the silent stairway. She would not typically sneak around at night, but she knew the building would be empty at this time, and the outside entrances were all locked. And anyway, she would not be truthfully leaving the grounds.

It took her a bit of wandering to find the door that led to the courtyard. She unlatched the door and pushed open the heavy wooden frame, loving the blue tint to the planks. The courtyard loomed before her, empty and filled with vegetation. She could hear the tinkling of a small fountain in the middle of the large section of yard, and she caught sight of its round edge surrounded by cobblestone pathway. The walls of the building rose around her, the rectangular windows that faced inward few and shadowed.

She stepped into the courtyard and soon found the section that curved away from the rest in the back, the stone walls here covered in thick, crawling vines. Like Raoul had said, a white bench rested here. As she drew nearer, the light from her lantern fell upon a red rose laid across the seat of the bench.

Grinning, she picked up the rose and found a white card attached with a ribbon. The card matched the one from upstairs.

 _A rose for a rose_ , it read in Raoul's sloping hand. _Enjoy the bit of garden._

Sitting on the bench, the stone chilly beneath her thin chemise and gown, she took a deep breath of the night air and let it out slowly, feeling herself relax. This was just what she needed – a place to escape on her own. Tucked away within the walls of a Parisian office building, she could almost pretend that she was back on the coastline that she so missed.

As she gazed around the courtyard, a slight shift of movement caught her notice. Just beyond the light of her lantern, she stared at a low window sunken into the ground.

In the window, she saw the slow blink of glowing, golden eyes.

Then the shifting of shadow upon shadow, and the eyes were gone as though she had only imagined them.

But her heart was now racing thick and fluttery within her chest. Taking hold of the rose and note, she bolted across the cobblestone for the door that led back inside. She took the stairs two by two, and she was gasping for breath by the time she made it back inside the apartment. For a moment, she heard only her own panting, and then her father's snore cut through the oppressive noise.

She let out a noise that was more relief than humor. She was obviously tired from traveling, and her eyes were playing tricks on her.

Toeing off her slippers, she crawled into bed and blew out the lantern. The scent of the rose wafted up from where she had laid it on the little table beside her bed. She needed this fresh start in the big city, and she could not wait to see Raoul in two days.

* * *

She awoke to the sharp smell of coffee. Her eyelids seemed stuck together in the clinging remnants of sleep, and she rubbed at her eyelashes to brush away the fogginess. Based on the hazy, early-morning light shining around her curtain, Papa was up at dawn. Yawning, she pulled on her dressing gown, shoved her feet into her cold slippers, and stumbled into the kitchen.

Her father sat on the loveseat, halfway in the process of tying his shoes. He frowned a bit when he saw her. "Sorry to wake you, Christine, but I have to start my rounds at daybreak before anyone else arrives in the building."

"No apologies, Papa," she said after clearing her throat.

"How did you sleep?"

"Not as good as you." She grinned at him. "But good enough."

Standing, he crossed to her and took her by the upper arms, his brown eyes warm. "We have spent too much time traveling, you and I. This change is a fresh start for us, dearest one. You will get used to this new routine, and to this city." He pressed a few coins into her hand. "There is a market a block away. Buy us something to eat for the next few days, will you? Just enough to tide us over until my first paycheck. Then we will go out and properly celebrate."

"I will, Papa." She watched as he quickly drank down his cup of coffee and helped him shrug into his coat, smoothing his lapels. "I hope your first day goes smoothly."

"So do I." He bent and kissed her on the forehead, then put on his hat and strode from the apartment.

Left alone, Christine did what she had longed to do ever since she saw that private washroom – take a long, hot bath. She even used some of the special rose-scented soap she had been saving. The grime from the past few weeks melted away in the heat of the bath, and the steam eased the nervous tightness in her chest.

Such a huge city… she had been to Paris before, several times, in fact, but never for very long. Back when her father played his violin as a vocation, they had spent only a night or two in a town, attracting a crowd wherever they went. Papa had played the violin. Her mother had played the piano.

And Christine had sung.

Those happy days had ended when her mother had contracted an illness and suddenly passed away. Papa abruptly sold his violin and used the money to buy them train tickets back to France. They had remained in this country ever since, going from town to town while he searched for work. Finally, on the southern coast, they had met Raoul de Chagny while her father worked as security at an inn. Raoul, impressed with her father's work ethic and more than a little bit smitten with Christine, had promised to find Papa a proper job in the city.

Months later, Raoul had delivered on his promise, and now here they were.

Christine finished her bath and contented herself with brushing out her hair and smoothing her skin with a little of her almond lotion. Then she dressed, wishing she had something more suitable than her brown traveling clothes. They would have to do, but maybe in the future, Papa could find her a little extra money for a new dress or two. For now, she was the picture in brown – her curly locks of hair nearly matching her bodice. At least her eyes were a vivid blue, a trait she had inherited from her mother.

After pinning her hair and tying her shoes, she took up her small purse of coin for food and headed out of the apartment. She heard the building bustling anew with life as soon as she climbed down the first flight of stairs. Now that it was daytime, the offices had filled with workers hurrying around. She wondered where Papa was currently working in the mix, but she would not bother him while he was on duty.

No one paid her much mind as she found her way to the bottom floor and out into the courtyard, which was so different in the daytime. Instead of the inviting stillness of last night, she found a loud cacophony of sounds. The windows lining each section of wall were almost all open to let in the fading summer breeze, and she could hear a mixture of conversations.

Finding her bench, she sat. This was to be her new home, and she wanted to enjoy her time here. But clearly, this courtyard could only be _hers_ at nighttime. She could come back later, when everyone had gone home, her father was asleep, and she could be alone with the stillness.

Standing, she went to leave and noticed the little window that had startled her last night. A black curtain covered the windowpane now. Perhaps the weirdness of the lantern's glow had caused a reflection?

Whatever it was, it was gone now, and she had a city to explore.

The city was no less alive and busy as Papa's new place of work. Christine, making certain her hat was pinned properly, stepped onto the sidewalk and marveled at the bustle of carriages and people walking on either side of the street. Parisians in this area of the city were immaculately dressed, some women with furs adorning their shoulders and hats larger than their coiffed hair. They all carried parasols, which Christine did not own. She would have to make do with the unfortunate freckles that already adorned her cheekbones and nose.

She easily found the market Papa had talked about and managed to buy some bread, cheese, and a few vegetables to make a stew. Their small amount of coin did not stretch far, and they would have to make do the best they could until her father's first payment from work. The baker offered one of last night's croissants with her purchase, and she picked off bits of the flaky crust as she walked, stuffing it into her mouth and ogling at the architecture rising around her.

Paris was truly a vast city. She wandered around for nearly an hour before finding an expansive garden laid out alongside an extremely large building. After walking closer to the structure, she saw that it was the famous Louvre, a museum containing wonders she had likely never even heard about. How she wished she could venture inside, but a man standing at the door was taking tickets. She would not be able to waste any of their meager funds on something like this.

Instead, she had to content herself with strolling the gardens. Even on the cusp of autumn, they were beautiful with huge stretches of lawn, rows of plentiful flowers, and sculpted shrubs.

Eventually, she made her way up the Seine, which flowed beside the gardens. She had gone too far off course to trace her steps back to her father's building, so she had to check around each intersection to see if she recognized any landmarks. So many of the buildings looked the same, however, and she struggled to orient herself.

Finally, she rounded a building's corner and the street opened into a large courtyard with multiple lanes of crisscrossing carriages. Beyond the traffic stood a magnificent structure rising stark against the light blue of the sky. Golden statues of what looked like angels glinted in the beams of sunshine.

Christine was transfixed.

She made her way to the building, entranced enough to find out the purpose of such a place. Rows of giant columns rose in front of her, and she hesitated only a moment before carrying herself up the steps and to a door in a row of doors that seemed like the entrance.

No one stopped her, so she opened the door and stepped into a long hall that took her breath away.

Christine had never seen such an elaborate place before. She felt like she had stepped into the castle of a fairy tale. Mouth agape, she looked around wild-eyed, taking in the gilded golden walls and intricate woodwork before her. Looking up, she gasped at the paintings on the ceiling.

What was this place? The hall was empty, so she hesitantly strode further in, crossing the room to step into the interior chambers. Everywhere she looked, she saw details upon details. The flooring in each room alone could have captivated her for hours. Her shoes clicked on the marble as she made her way further into the maze of pathways.

She passed through a hall that opened into an expanse of interconnected stairways. Across the way, she saw two women walking together. They were too distracted with speaking with each other to notice her, so she kept going.

Her heart thudded in her ears, but another sound drifting from somewhere in front of her overcame her own nervousness.

Cupping a hand to one of her ears, she followed the sound to a curve of dark wooden doors, each framed by the bust of a different man. Her hand reached for one of the door handles, but she froze.

She knew what the sound was – _music_.

Voices rose up beyond the doors, voices collaborating together in a way that could only mean that this was an opera theatre. Her heart soared, her hand still paused halfway to the door. She had never been inside a theatre this grand before. Back when her mother was still alive, Papa had performed on stages across Europe, but none had come close to this kind of grandeur.

The music called to her, tugging her forward in a way she had not felt in years. The voices melded together, harmonizing and causing the hairs on her hands to stand on end. She recognized this song. Often, her mother had played it on the piano with Christine standing at her side, singing.

"Can I help you?"

One of the pair who had been walking across the staircases now stood halfway down the hall from Christine. The young woman was dressed in a robe that clearly covered a ballerina costume. Her wavy blonde locks hung down her back. A pair of pointe shoes dangled from one of her hands.

"S-sorry," Christine said, caught off guard. "I was only listening."

The girl smiled kindly. "We don't let outsiders hear our practices. I'll have to scold the guardsman for not noticing you slipped in."

Christine felt her face grow hot, but the other woman continued to look more amused than angry.

"Our opening night of _Carmen_ is in a week. Please consider coming to see it."

"I will." Christine knew she could never afford the opera on her own. She was at once aware of her own drab clothing and that her shoes had tracked in mud from the sidewalk. Mortified that she appeared to be a vagrant off the streets, she excused herself and fled from the building.

On her way out, she caught sight of a poster promoting the next production at the Palais Garnier. This opera house had forced her to recall years passed when she used to sing alongside her parents. She envied the people in the poster, dressed in their costumes, their mouths open in song. Her throat closed up, and she wondered if perhaps it was not only due to rising tears. Her voice had wanted to join those upon the stage. She thought she had moved beyond such longings.

Not wanting to wander around any longer, Christine asked a cab driver for directions and made her way upon tired feet to the building she now called home.

She supposed it _had_ been a number of hours since she had stepped out, but she was still startled to find her father waiting for her in their apartment. He sat in one of the armchairs in their living room, and he stood when she entered.

"Papa?"

Brows drawn together, he asked, "Where have you been?"

"In the city." She sat her bag of groceries on the kitchen table and began to unpack. "Are you off work already?"

"Of course not. I came here on break and found you missing. No one had seen you since this morning."

She winced. "I apologize, Papa. I didn't mean to be gone for so long, but I was exploring and I got turned around. But Papa, I found the most amazing place-"

The sound of his fist crashing upon the wood of the table made her jump. Instantly, tears sprung in her eyes. Her father was so rarely mad at her, but she had done little than disappoint him lately.

"Papa, I am sor-"

"I do not need apologies, Christine," he said, running a heavy hand across his weary face. "I need this job – _we_ need this job. I cannot have my only daughter, my young daughter, scurrying about the city unaccompanied. Do you have any idea of the image you create for yourself if you behave in this way?"

She jutted out her chin. "I do not care what people say. I did nothing wrong."

"I care what they say! I am certain the Vicomte cares as well."

Oh, that was low of him! He knew how much she wanted Raoul to officially announce their courtship. She stared down at her feet.

His voice softened. "Christine, I must keep this job, or we are back onto the streets. Do you understand that? Do you want to go back to how things where, jumping from inn to inn, barely scraping by?"

She shook her head, too choked up to reply. Of course she did not want them to want for money, but a not-so small part of her did want to go back to times long since passed. She desperately wanted to tell him about her discovery of the Palais Garnier, of the singing she had heard in the opera house, but she knew bringing up music would only anger him further. It was a small comfort that he brought his arms around her after she threw herself against him, burying her face in his chest. She had never meant to upset him.

"I will not do it again, Papa."

"No, you will not." He heaved a sigh. "You will not go anywhere but the market from now on. Do you understand?"

Gulping, she nodded. Then she turned away quickly so he would not see her tears. He was soon gone anyway, heading back to his work. After unpacking the groceries, she shut the door to her bedroom and laid down. No more tears would come, but she lay there without moving for a long time, listening to the bustling city street five stories below her.

For a moment, in the theatre, her heart had soared. If Papa could only hear music like that again… maybe he would remember how much he once loved it too.

Now she was to be trapped, unable to venture outside of these walls.

At least her father had said nothing about exploring the building itself.

Rising, she set a stew to bubble on the stove. It was late before her father stumbled back inside the apartment. He could do little more than eat a bowl, thank her for the meal, and head off for a quick bath before crashing into his bed. She cleaned up and spent some time beside her open window, watching as the streetlamps gradually turned on. The Parisians walking to and fro did not cease for many hours after dark, but eventually, even they ventured to bed.

Christine was too restless for sleep. Her mind had been spinning songs within her head ever since she had heard the opera singers at the Palais.

Pulling on her wrapper, she slipped from the apartment and headed to her secret little alcove in the courtyard, a lantern highlighting her way.

Once she reached the stone bench, she sat and set the lantern beside her. Crickets rose up around her, but otherwise, the night was silent. She hummed for a while, letting her throat grow used to the vibration.

Closing her eyes, she breathed out a deep lungful of cool air. Then she took a long drag of breath and began to sing. At first, she was too tentative to let loose her song at full volume. She had learned how to project at an early age, joining her mother and father upon the stage. But it had been so long since she had sung…

Many of the words escaped her memory. The melody remained, however, and she clung to that now, letting it envelope her with its familiarity and ease her aching soul. She kept her eyes closed, there was little to see in the dark anyway, and focused on the feel of song in her throat, the press of her expanding ribcage against the linen of her chemise.

When she finished, her voice echoing off the shielding walls around her, she brushed away the tears that dotted her cheeks. Her throat ached a little from being unused to singing, but now that she had, she had no idea how she had ever stopped.

Then, as if carried upon the night air, a voice spoke in her ear, low and dulcet:

"Brava."

* * *

 _Please leave a review to let me know your thoughts! I'm nervous about this fic and need some encouragement. :)_


	2. Songbird

**Thank you so much for the reviews! I wanted to get this chapter out before my Fall Break ended. Here you go!**

 **Keep in mind Christine's age here (19), and the time period when reading this. And remember how much I love character development. :) Any similarities to canon story lines are intentional, but this is a true AU - the end result will likely follow very different paths.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Songbird**

"Brava."

The voice spoke in her ear as though someone were standing directly behind her. Grabbing onto her lantern, Christine swung the light around, but she saw only plants and the intersecting corner of two stone walls at her back. In front of her, the glow of the lantern fell only so far, and she tried to peer into the darkness of the courtyard beyond.

Heart thudding against her chest, she called, "Who is there?"

Silence answered. She began to doubt she had heard anything at all, but the word had rumbled clearly in her ear, and the voice had been unmistakably that of a man. Still sitting on the bench, she pulled her slippered feet under her, preparing to bolt for the door.

A sigh, again right in her ear, and she shivered as though she could feel its breath. "If I speak, little songbird, will you stay?"

What kind of question was that? She should have fled the moment she heard a man's voice in this darkness. She was a woman, barely tuned nineteen, alone and outside in the middle of the night. If she valued her integrity and truthfully, her life, she should leave immediately.

Instead, she jutted out her chin. "My actions depend upon your words, monsieur." Though she did not run, she did stand, swinging the lantern around. "Again, I ask, who is there?"

"An admirer," said the voice. "Nothing more."

"Does this… admirer have a name?"

"Do you?"

At that, she hesitated. What if this was an employee of Papa's company lingering after dark in the building? She could get her father in serious trouble if she were caught. While her name was that of a nobody, her father's surname could be recognizable, especially here.

The voice seemed to notice her hesitation. "I pose no threat to you, little bird. I merely wish to hear you sing."

She swallowed. "Please… do not tell my father I was out here."

"I will do no such thing." He paused, and she could almost hear a bit of wiry humor in his voice. "We all have our secrets, do we not?"

His last statement seemed a plea for her to drop her questions. She still hovered between leaving and staying, but her curiosity caused her to remain in place. He had heard her singing and had… admired her?

"Would you sing again?" he asked, his hope unmistakable.

"One song," she said, setting the lantern on the bench beside her. The music of _Carmen_ she had briefly heard at the Palais Garnier earlier that day still called to her. Since it was in French, she was more familiar with this opera than others, and she could be surer of her pronunciation.

Now that she was aware of her audience, however, she grew shy. Her voice, unused and untrained as it was, could hardly match those of a professional diva. If she embarrassed herself, she could no longer come to this little snip of courtyard she had started to think of her own.

Then again, she probably could not anyway, knowing she was being watched by some unseen, lurking man.

Needing bravery, she opened her mouth and began to sing the rallying lament of a woman trying to draw her own kind of courage. She became Micaela, searching for the man she loved in the mountains. The song poured from her mouth, the notes pinging off the stone walls rising around her. She finished. Panting, chest heaving, she lowered her arms from where they had risen, unbidden, toward the sky. Once again, she had gotten lost within the music, and her mind scrambled to replay what she had uttered in these last few minutes. Had she horribly embarrassed herself?

Her cheeks burning, she picked up the lantern again and looked around the courtyard. The voice had remained silent throughout her performance. Even though he frightened her, hidden as he was, she found herself disappointed to think that he had left while she was singing.

"Monsieur?" she ventured.

Finally, he spoke, his words mingled with a sigh. "Ah, you have a gift, little bird. You… are untrained, yes?"

"M-mostly, yes."

"Your natural talent makes up for your lack of technique." He fell silent, then added, "May I hear you again sometime?"

Suddenly, the night was too cold, and she was well aware of her present circumstances. She grasped the high collar of her wrapper as though warding off both him and the autumnal air. "I should go."

Not giving him a chance to reply, she hurried off in the direction of the door. The shadows pressed in around her, and she feared at any moment that they might conjure up her unseen companion. However, he did not appear, nor did he speak to her again. The heavy door banged shut behind her, but she did not manage to relax for a long time, not even when she was tucked into her bed, the apartment door locked behind her.

After a while, her encounter in the courtyard faded into a dreamlike quality, and she closed her eyes, giving herself over to sleep.

* * *

"What time is the Vicomte de Chagny arriving?" her father asked the next morning as he dressed for another early start to work.

"Noon o'clock," Christine answered.

He tugged on his other boot and began to lace it. "And when will you be back?"

She shrugged, trying to seem casual despite her excitement. "I don't know, Papa. We are having lunch. I cannot expect that Raoul would keep me out late."

"I would rather you had a chaperone." Squinting his scrutiny at her, he straightened. Then he sighed. "He has proven himself a reliable and forth-coming man before. I trust you will be on your best behavior."

Christine managed not to roll her eyes. He was acting like she was going on an outing with an employer or teacher, and not with a man who was only a few years older than she was. She wished Papa actually would trust her sometime to make the right decisions.

"I promise, Papa."

"Until this evening, then." Crossing the room, he hugged her in his broad arms. "Make me proud, Christine."

She bit the inside of her lip to stop herself from replying as she watched her father leave the apartment. Despite the fact that she knew he meant well, his words made her even more worried about Raoul's lack of a formal courtship. All the more reason that she make the most of her outing with him today.

Christine took a bath and got dressed in her usual drab brown attire. At least she could make certain it was wrinkle-free, and that her hair was brushed until it gleamed, each curl pined with precision. Stroking a finger down her mother's picture, she whispered a prayer for today to go well, then headed downstairs just before noon.

The outside main entrance to her father's workplace was crowded as usual. Christine stood on her tiptoes, trying to scrutinize each carriage passing nearby. The edge of summer blurring into autumn had been dry, and the wheels of the carriages kicked up clouds of dust. She coughed a bit but remained vigilant in her search.

"Little Lotte!"

Christine turned, smiling, to see Raoul waving out of the window of a stagecoach. As the carriage pulled up to the curb, he leapt out, removing his top hat from his wavy blonde hair to present himself with a bow.

"Right on time, monsieur," she said with a laugh, "but must you insist on that silly nickname?"

"Why, it reminds me of the first day we met. Charles was on break, sitting near the fire, with the prettiest girl I had ever seen. His stories of the north captivated her, and I was entranced by the way her blue eyes sparkled when she laughed."

Christine could feel a blush spreading across her cheeks. She took the hand that Raoul extended, wishing there were no gloves between them, and let him help her into the cab. "It is good to see you, Raoul."

He gave her a knowing look. "And you, dearest Christine."

As the carriage lurched away from the sidewalk, they chatted about what had happened since they had last been together in southern France. When Raoul had left, Christine had no idea when she might see him again. He was joining a company in Paris that dealt in the trading of weapons, and he hoped he could boost his late father's family name by corralling more foreign companies to join in the business.

Months later, he had arrived back at the inn where Charles had been working as a guard, but they had already moved on to another town. Even now, she frowned at the idea that they might have been separated forever had Raoul not inquired as to their whereabouts with such insistence. Almost immediately, he had offered Charles the job at his company - Manufacture d'Armes de St-Etienne – at the headquarters in Paris. Charles had accepted just as quickly.

Christine knew little about Raoul's company except that he was a recent addition to the business, and as such, he was one of the lower ranking businessmen for MASE. He must have pulled some favors to get Charles the job as groundskeeper, especially since the work came with the privilege of living there as well.

The carriage pulled up to a stop, and the driver hopped down to open the door for them. Christine was expecting a restaurant, but instead, she was ushered into what looked like a dress shop. Several mannequins were displayed near the front, each wearing a gown showcasing the latest Parisian styles in daywear.

Raoul guided her inside with a hand at the small of her back. She looked up at him in confusion.

"What is this, Raoul?"

He grinned at her. "You are in Paris now, Little Lotte, and if we are to venture out, you need the proper clothes. I gave Madame Plourde your measurements, with Charles's blessing. She has crafted a few gowns that I feel confident you will love."

Raoul had bought her new clothes? Christine knew she needed them, knew the hem of her brown skirt had gotten too high as she had grown taller, knew the hole at her elbow had been mended one too many times. But she did not like charity, and her stomach knotted along with her pride.

"At least try one on," he said, prodding her forward.

Madame Plourde, an older woman with high, tight cheekbones, led Christine to the back of the store and behind several curtains. Without asking permission, she began to unbutton the front of Christine's bodice, tsking at the dingy white corset and chemise underneath. Mortified, Christine could do little else than stand there. At least Madame Plourde gave her back while she changed into fresh underthings.

"Turn around, girl," the seamstress said, and Christine obeyed. "Your corset needs to be tighter, your posture rigid."

Christine winced as Madame Plourde jerked on her corset strings. At least the dress itself was beautiful – a deep blue satin with a black fringe along the hem. Stiff new heeled shoes, a large blue hat, and silk gloves completed the ensemble.

"Perhaps a parasol too," Madame sniffed. "Those freckles might fade if you stay out of the sun."

Christine was certain that her ears must be bright red when she stepped out for Raoul's approval. But the way his face lit up made the experience worth it.

"Mademoiselle," he said, taking her hand and bending to kiss her knuckles.

She flushed with pleasure. "Raoul, I cannot possibly accept-"

"Nonsense, Christine. I have made it my mission to see you and your father settled comfortably. Please see this as a gift from my heart." He nodded at the seamstress. "Thank you, Madame. Box up the rest and send it to 62 rue de Richelieu, if you please."

The rest? Christine watched, wide-eyed, as Madame Plourde began to gather up at least two other gowns and accompanying accessories, snapping her fingers for several attendants to help. Raoul ushered her away, and soon they were back in the carriage.

"Lunch?" he asked, and she nodded emphatically. She'd had nothing since leftover stew the night before, and she was already afraid her stomach might embarrassingly reveal itself with a growl.

He took her to a traditionally French restaurant, but she did not mind. Papa and she had traveled the world when her mother had still been alive, and she had eaten her way across the continent.

Although Raoul complained that they did not carry his favorite wine, she savored every bite of the rich food, resisting the urge to spoon the last bits of sauce from her plates – and from Raoul's. When he offered her dessert, she jumped upon the chance, and the thick chocolate and berry soufflé made her toes curl within her new shoes.

Their cab driver was awaiting them when they finished. Christine wished they could have gone for a stroll to relieve her full belly, but Raoul had a gleam in his eye. She recognized that mischievous look.

However, she was not prepared for the carriage to pull up alongside the Palais Garnier.

"Raoul?" she asked, hesitating. No possible way did he know she had been here only yesterday. Only the one ballerina had even _seen_ her.

"Welcome to _the_ Paris opera house," he said, extending a hand to escort her from the stagecoach. "I have been so eager to show you this place, Little Lotte. Come on!"

Mirroring her steps from yesterday, they entered through one of the front doors, stepping into the same golden parlor she had already explored. This time, though, a guardsman paced just inside. Christine braced herself to be caught trespassing, but the uniformed man only tipped his hat to them both and moved on.

They passed by the grand staircases once more and arrived at the curved arrangement of wooden doors, each with their own set of red velvet steps. Christine could hear music once again, though no one was singing this time.

Turning right to walk parallel to the doors, Raoul came to the last one and opened it for Christine to enter. She marveled at the completely red room, the walls and floors covered in a matching scarlet. Passing through another narrow door, she stepped onto a small balcony and gasped.

Before her spread the auditorium of the Palais Garnier in all its glory. The red theme carried on within the chamber, the chairs, tapestries, and walls all draped in it. Her eyes followed the shining golden columns to the enormous chandelier, and beyond that, to the ceiling painting with extravagantly vivid scenes. She could hear Raoul chuckling behind her, but she ignored him. _This_ was the theatre of her dreams, and the stage with its rich wooden surface stretched in front of her.

Now she took in the dancers upon the stage. Two dozen ballerinas in their practice wear twisted and leap as they practiced through a song while a dozen or so orchestra players guided them. The dancers took no notice of them, but an older woman dressed in black, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a severe bun, made her way over as soon as she saw them.

Their balcony was slightly elevated, but the woman made up for the distance with her strong presence. She jabbed her cane into the wooden plank at her feet, the loud noise cutting the music short immediately.

"Take a ten minute break," she told the ballerinas. "I suggest you rehydrate and stretch."

The dancers began to disperse, except for one. The blonde woman from yesterday, the one who had spoken to Christine, lingered. Christine gave her a small smile of recognition, but maybe the girl did not recognize Christine dressed as she was. She did give a discreet wave, then headed off the stage with the rest.

Raoul leaned on the edge of the balcony railing. "Is ten minutes all that I get, madame?"

"We open in less than a week, Monsieur le Vicomte," the older woman said. "I trust you understand that every practice is now vital."

They knew each other? Even though the woman seemed to be frowning, she did not protest his presence in the theatre.

Raoul only grinned. "Madame Giry, let me present Mademoiselle Christine Daaé."

Madame Giry leveled her gaze upon Christine. "Is this the Daaé girl you told me about?"

"Indeed, she is." Raoul looked at Christine. "Madame Giry is head ballet mistress of the company here at the Garnier."

"Ah." Christine managed a smile. "It is nice to meet you, madame. I enjoyed watching your dancers."

"The three in the back were off beat," she replied tartly. "Can you dance?"

"I know only the basics," Christine admitted, twisting her fingers in the folds of her skirt to hide her nervousness. "I took some classes for a few years when I was a little girl."

Raoul seemed used to the older woman's bluntness. "Christine can sing, I assure you. And she is naturally graceful. With a little instruction, she could do well on the stage."

Christine looked between the two. The more she listened to their exchanges, the more she was convinced that they had spoken of her before. But why would Raoul talk her up to the ballet mistress here? Christine had told Raoul before of her father's desire to keep her out of music. He knew how much even discussing this might anger Papa.

Not knowing what to say, she stared down at her fingers buried within her skirt. She did not want to disappoint Papa, but her heart longed to join in the bustle of this theatre. She only wished Raoul had spoken with her about this beforehand.

Madame Giry waved a dismissive hand. "I cannot take on a new chorus girl with _Carmen_ about to open. Come see me in a few weeks, and we will speak of this further." She nodded at Christine. "I am sorry for your loss, my dear."

Her loss? Christine opened her mouth to question Raoul, but Madame Giry thumped her cane into the floor again. Immediately, the dancers took up their positions again, while the musicians began to warm their instruments. The noise was too loud for Christine to speak.

Raoul exchanged goodbyes with the madame, then took Christine's elbow to lead her from the box. As they strode from the opera house, Christine shot a troubled look at Raoul.

"What did she mean by my loss?" she asked as soon as they were back in the parlor and the guardsman had scurried off to hail their cab.

Raoul shrugged. "I told Madame Giry about your losing your mother a few years ago. Maybe that is what she meant? In any case, what did you think?"

"About what?" Christine could not shake the feeling that something had been off about the exchange with the ballet mistress. One did not offer such heartfelt condolences for events that had happened ages ago. Her mother has passed away not just "a few years ago" – she had succumbed to a chest infection almost six years prior.

"Singing at the Garnier, of course," Raoul said. The carriage pulled up, and they climbed inside. "How many times have you confessed to me that you wish to perform?"

Too many. She fell silent, unable to reply. If she pursued this… her father would never agree to it. But if she married Raoul, Papa would have no say in her choices from that moment onward. Perhaps Raoul was looking toward the future?

"I do have some say in the Garnier's business," he added, winking at her. "I became their patron just last month!"

They arrived back at the company's building. Christine thanked Raoul for lunch and especially for the gifts. He kissed her hand.

"I must head to our manufacturing plant in St-Etienne. Shall we dine for lunch again next week, Little Lotte?"

She wanted to spend time with him more often than that, but she merely nodded. Secretly, she hoped he might take her to see _Carmen_. If he was now their patron, he must have his own box. How thrilling an experience she would have, sitting practically upon the stage itself with Raoul at her side.

The voice in the courtyard had slipped her mind, consumed as she was with Raoul.

Now, as she climbed the five flights of stairs to the apartment, she recalled the conversation she and the voice had shared. He had called her songbird, had enjoyed listening to her sing in a way no one had since her mother. Even though Raoul had boasted about her abilities to Madame Giry, he himself had rarely heard her, had never truly made the time or _asked_ for her to sing to him.

But the voice… he had asked to hear her again. Her mind in turmoil, she wanted the peace that music might bring her tonight.

Papa arrived back at the apartment late in the evening. Dutifully, she had heated stew for him, feeling ashamed that she had enjoyed a rich and expensive meal without him. She promised herself that she would try to barter for some fish at the market tomorrow.

Her father seemed too tired to care much about the quality of the food, anyway. He asked a few questions about her outing with the Vicomte, but she did not give many details. Certainly, she did not tell him about going to the opera house. His questions had more to do with the new clothes piled in her room. Like usual, he patted her head and went to bed as soon as he was finished eating.

This night, she did not undress for bed. She laid atop her coverlet, staring up at the ceiling. As soon as she heard cathedral bells chiming the late hour, she took up her lantern and headed for the courtyard.

Yesterday, she had been caught unaware. Her actions tonight were an entirely differently thing – sneaking out while _knowing_ a man might be there, listening.

Her breath caught in her chest as she stepped into the open air, closing the door behind her with a thud that echoed off the high walls. Perhaps she did hold her breath as she crossed further into the courtyard, at least until the light of her lantern fell upon the empty alcove and her awaiting bench. Had she expected to find someone sitting here, waiting expectantly, for her?

Feeling foolish, she sat upon the cold stone. When no one spoke, she exhaled heavily in frustration and launched into a Swedish folk song called "Herr Mannelig" that her parents had only begun to play when her mother had taken ill. While rather vicious in its tone, the story about a female mountain troll trying to woo a human man made her laugh as a girl on the cusp of womanhood. Honestly, it felt good to speak her native language, her tongue rolling with the sounds that others might find difficult to produce.

When she finished, her last note fading into the darkness, she slumped in her seat.

"Today, you are angry," the voice said in her ear, causing her to jump.

She grabbed onto her lantern, but like yesterday, she saw no one. "I thought I had only imagined you," she whispered.

"To my fortune, you did not." A pause, then, "You are Swedish?"

"Yes." She set the lantern beside her and smoothed her skirts, trying to appear at ease. "And I am not truly angry today. Only... disappointed."

"Ah."

She was not certain how she managed to so easily grow comfortable speaking with someone who was merely a voice. Perhaps it was because she had no one else to talk to, at least no one not focused upon directing her life for her. There was… a sort of safety in a voice remaining a voice, and the lack of judgement that came without expressions upon a face.

"Have you heard of the Palais Garnier?" she asked.

He did not reply for so long that she began to doubt he was still there. Then, almost too calmly: "Yes."

"I went there today. Well, I went there yesterday too, but today I was able to see the auditorium – the inside part, where the audience sits. Actually, I saw inside one of the private boxes." Her tongue had flown away from her. She tried to bring it to heel. "It was beautiful."

"Indeed, it is."

"Have you ever seen a performance there?" Her questions were too probing, she knew. "You do not have to answer," she added quickly. "My parents often played such songs for me, especially once I was old enough to join in as part of their traveling act. I have always loved opera, but I have never seen a show in person."

"It is an experience everyone should encounter at least once," he said. "The opera can be… life-sustaining." It was an odd way to speak about such matters, but she did not press him to explain. "Would you sing again, little bird?"

" _Carmen_ again? The Palais Garnier is putting on a production, and the music has been inside my head."

"That would be lovely."

She stood and closed her eyes, letting the beginning melody wash through her memory. Then she sang, and while she sang, she remembered standing between her parents on a stage, this same song blowing through her girlish lips. Her father spun the song on his violin, while her mother entwined with his threads on the piano. Together, they had entranced audiences, and little Christine, a bow in her coiling hair, had loved the applause that had followed. She was not certain how they had managed to recreate such songs together; there had been no sheet music, no guidance, only melodies heard and melodies replicated, the lyrics scribbled onto a piece of paper for Christine to learn.

When she finished, she felt the wetness upon her cheeks. With her handkerchief, she wiped it away, and she wondered not for the first time if the voice could see her while she could not see him.

She was left still wondering when he did not comment upon her tears. The outing with Raoul, the time at the opera house, the weirdness at the dress shop, all had left her aching inside, missing a past that she would never be able to recover.

"I should go," she said, picking up the lantern. "Thank you for listening."

"An easy act," he replied.

But was it really? Her father could scarcely hear her above his own thoughts. Raoul seemed more distant than ever before. Trapped as she was within his building's walls, Christine had never felt so alone.

She shivered, wishing she had brought her cloak with her. "Tomorrow night?"

"I think not," he said, startling her. "Best you stay inside tomorrow, little bird."

"A-All right." She did not protest, so taken aback was she by his frankness. Had she somehow offended him with her chattiness? Had her songs tonight made him realize he did not want to hear her anymore?

She fled the courtyard, not caring that she was hurrying to the point of running by the time she made it to the door, not caring that more tears dotted her cheeks as she stepped inside the dark apartment and finally undressed for bed.

 _"Best you stay inside tomorrow, little bird."_ Little bird indeed! She was not a little girl anymore, and certainly not a bird, but the nickname had seemed more endearing than insulting at first. She had _wanted_ it to be an endearment, along with the thought that someone, somewhere, even an unseen someone, might show her some measure of kindness.

Who was he, anyway, but a voice without a man behind it? She was Christine Daaé, daughter of the groundskeeper of Manufacture d'Armes de St-Etienne's offices. The Vicomte de Chagny himself had given her the alcove with the bench as her own personal sanctuary.

If she wanted to go there and sing, she would go there and sing.


	3. Prison

**Eeeek, please let me know what you think.**

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Prison**

Christine put on a burgundy dress Raoul had bought for her. A rose pattern in soft velvet dotted the sleeves, spread down the middle of the bodice around the buttons, and continued between the folds of the skirt. She pinned her hair up, fixed her hat, and tugged on the matching gloves. Then, she examined herself in the small oval mirror of her bedroom's vanity.

Her mother's face still blazed perfectly in her memory. Her dark brown hair had contained even more persistent ringlets than Christine's, which curled mostly starting below her ears. Her blue eyes resembled her mother's, and even in shape, they were the same. Her pointed nose came from her father's mother, her full lips from her mother's side of the family. Her mother had told her that her freckles, covering her cheeks and dusting the tops of her shoulders, must have trickled down from a red-headed great grandmother.

Blowing out a steady breath, Christine closed her eyes, then opened them again, staring at her reflection. She tried to see herself as others might see her – a rather plain country girl with small breasts and wide hips, a little too short in stature, an accent that some might find endearing.

Raoul had once said she had a natural magnetism that drew people to her, but Christine had never thought of herself as charismatic. Rather, she had been ignorable her whole life, the type of girl that no one noticed by their elbow or forgot she existed as soon as she left. She supposed that was why Raoul had surprised her at first. Instead of leaving, he had come back for more of her company again and again.

She had placed the rose he had given her on her first day here in a glass of water. Now on her bedside table, its petals, once lush and a deep red, were beginning to turn dark at the edges. Perhaps she should consider drying it properly, as a way of commemorating. But she was not sure yet what to celebrate.

Frowning at her reflection, she unpinned her hat and tossed it onto the dresser. The gloves quickly followed. She would not need either today. She would not be going _anywhere_.

The voice from the courtyard had called her "songbird." Christine felt that if she were a bird, then her wings had been clipped. She could no more fly out of this building than she could step out the front door and make her own way in society.

Which is why her excursions at night had come to mean the world to her. In that fraction of time, in that minute amount of space, she could pretend that she was no mere unmarried woman trapped within the boundaries of decorum and propriety. She could let loose her voice in ways it was typically restrained.

When she had spoken to the unseen voice, she had found her own voice again.

Therefore, tonight, she would ignore the voice's insistence that she stay inside. If he did not like it, he should have faced her like any dignified person and told her why directly.

She had not ventured outside today, so she did not realize how cold it had gotten until she opened the door leading to the courtyard. The chill slapped her cheeks. Autumn had crept in on silent feet, and she would need to bring her shawl or cloak with her from now on. Hesitating, she considering going to fetch hers, or at least retrieving her gloves, but she resolved that she simply would not stay late tonight.

It was a sensible way to reason with the voice's want that she keep away today. The chill was not quite enough to cause her breath to emerge in white wisps, but her fingers quickly grew frigid as she held the lantern aloft.

"Are you there?" she asked, seating herself on the bench. A scarf might be a clever idea next time as well, to wrap around her throat while she sang.

The voice did not reply.

Admittedly, she pouted a bit. Was he avoiding her now? Maybe she had angered him by coming out here against his wishes. She opened her mouth to state something about this being her own space, but she thought better of it. Even though she liked to think of the alcove as her own, she knew she no more possessed the stone bench, the vines, the high walls as Papa did the apartment in which they now lived.

"I understand if you are angry with me, but I have so few…" She trailed off, checking herself again. Her excuses sounded like complaints even to her ears, and Christine was not a complainer, never had been.

The voice still did not reply, and the thought struck her that perhaps he was not even here tonight.

She blew out a breath and contented herself with sitting for a while in the quiet. When she was not singing, she noticed the cacophony of other voices around her – that of insects prowling in the vines, the bubble of the fountain, the occasional whistle of a faraway train.

The fresh air began to ease her spirits, so she stood to leave. And then she heard the creak of the single door, which led to the courtyard, opening.

The voice suddenly snapped in her ear, "Turn off your lamp, foolish girl."

Immediately, she did so, throwing herself into darkness. The moon was a sliver in the sky, giving her enough light to see shapes, but her ears quickly attuned to the sound of the two men who had emerged into the courtyard. Their voices spoke in slurred French as they joked about a busty woman they had seen. The door shut behind them, and one of the men laughed crassly.

Christine's heart tried to leap from her chest, the beat of it loud in her ears. She did not recognize the voices of either man; they were certainly not that of _her_ voice. For a moment, she hovered in indecision. If the men crossed past the fountain, and if they had a lantern, they would see her as soon as they went around the corner.

She heard the slight creak of something turning upon hinges. In the dim light, she saw that the small window to her right, the one that seemed separate from the first floor of the building, was now cracked open.

"Inside, quickly," the voice ordered again, and Christine did not have time to hesitate. She could hear the boots of the men scraping along the cobblestone path. She knew her father might be fired if she was caught wandering around in the middle of the night.

Taking her lantern with her, she shoved the window open further, revealing a dark chamber beyond. Another lamp glowed dimly in a corner, giving her enough vision to see that a table had been shoved underneath the window, giving her a way to climb down. She tucked her heavy skirts around her legs, then slid on her belly through the window.

She made more noise than she would have liked, climbing onto the wooden table. And she was far from graceful. The edge of her bodice caught on the frame of the window, and she definitely heard a rip before she landed onto the table. Quickly, she grabbed her lantern, and then she swung the window closed behind her, throwing the heavy black curtain closed.

Panting from her quick exertion, she eased down from the table and stepped further into what seemed like a small room. She could not distinguish much of its contents, except to the right, where there was what looked like a bed the size of a cot. As her eyes adjusted, her lips parted as she sucked in a startled breath.

Upon the bed sat a man, straight-backed, staring at her with cat-yellow eyes, which glowed faintly in the flicker of the lantern. His bare hands were spread across each of his thighs, his splayed fingers spider-like.

His dark figure began to rise when she saw him. He uncurled the long line of his body as he stood, and her eyes followed, widening in fear at his towering height, his form dressed all in black except for the white of a shirt peeking out at his lapels.

The clinking of chains caught her attention, and she gasped at the sight of metal shackles around his wrists. Her gaze darted back to his face, or what she thought was his face – all she could see were those golden eyes.

Who was he? _What_ was he?

Her mouth opened with a rising scream.

Chains clanking, he moved, darting in a blur before she could react until he had spun her around and caught her against his chest. One hand gripped her upper arm, and another came across her mouth, cutting off her scream. She panicked, clutching at the broad palm, trying to claw the long, bony fingers from her mouth.

"Hush now, little bird," the man murmured.

She recognized the unseen voice immediately. This man, this tall pole of a man, was the one who had spoken to her the past two days. Except now instead of merely hearing his voice in her ear, she felt the rumble of it at her back and the slight warmth of his body behind hers.

He did not remove his hand from her mouth. But as her panic eased slightly, she was able to notice how carefully he kept his thumb from covering her nose, how firmly he immobilized her without hurting her. His hand was cold against her lower face. She stopped trying to pry his fingers away and instead relaxed her hands upon his – one on his bony knuckles, the other resting just before the metal cuff on his wrist and the edge of his shirtsleeve.

"Calm yourself," he said, voice sliding over her.

Beneath her fingertips, she felt his own racing pulse. _Are you so affected… by me?_ she thought, and then scoffed. "Calm _yourself_ , monsieur."

His answering huff of quiet laughter took her aback, but he moved away from her, palms raised as though showing her he was unarmed. When he took a step to the side, she moved backwards toward the window.

"Stay back or I _will_ scream."

He kept his hands raised. "I am merely going to turn up the lantern. Things appear less frightening in the light, yes?"

She nodded, and he moved slowly, bending the narrow length of his body to twist the knob of a second lantern. Though he kept the flame low, the glow was enough for her to see him in full detail. He stood far above her, his limbs lean, his torso slim. He wore a formal black suit with a black waistcoat and cravat.

A black mask covered the entirety of his face.

She was about to stammer out a question about the mask when the gleam of gray metal caught her attention once again. The tight shackles at each of his wrists were connected to a ring embedded in the wall near the bed, the chains long enough for him to be able to cross the room.

"W-Why are you chained?" she asked in growing horror.

His head tilted slightly to the side as he gazed calmly at her. "I did not do what I was told. I suppose you could say you are in this position because you did not do the same."

Why did it feel like he was scolding her? She did not need yet another person rebuking her choices. She crossed her arms, suddenly too cold, too frightened, too confused. "Who are those men?"

"Messieurs Leclair and Plamondon. They come every Friday to collect from the vault. They are not men you wish to meet at night." He gestured a long-fingered hand at the room. "I cannot know if they will come here tonight as well."

"In here?" she said, voice rising shrilly in sudden panic. "W-What should I do?"

"You should hide." He fisted a hand over his broad chest. "I will keep you safe. I would not have brought you in here otherwise."

Eyes wide, she stared up at him. She had no idea who this man was. For all she knew, there was a very good reason he was in chains. With his entire face covered, his every expression was hidden from her, indecipherable.

And yet, his golden eyes gazed back with such warmth that she could not help but feel like she could trust him.

She swallowed, forcing her knotted throat to speak as unwaveringly as she could. "You… are the one who asked me to sing?"

"Indeed," he said, tipping his head to her ever so slightly. "Imagine my surprise when such a lovely voice began outside my window. I suppose you could say I was entranced enough to compliment against my better judgement."

"I am glad you did." A bit nervously, she smoothed her palms down her skirt. "Admittedly, I am out of practice."

"I meant what I said – you have a gift, despite the lack of practice."

She flushed at the compliment.

Her reply was cut short by the heavy thump of boots down what sounded like stairs. Her masked companion moved quickly, tucking her extra lantern under the table and gesturing at the cot.

"Under the bed, little bird."

"W-What?" she stammered, dropping to a whisper.

He gestured again, this time more insistent. The footsteps grew louder, and one of the men burst out laughing.

" _Now_ , girl."

Finally, she obeyed, dropping to her knees. The space beneath the bed was so narrow, she had to scoot on her belly along the floor, using her toes to maneuver underneath the mattress. Her bustle caught, and she heard the man murmur an apology before he shoved the lump of her skirt under the bed. Quickly, he tucked the folds of her dress around her, then spread the coverlet down, blocking most of her from view.

She turned her head so she could see in the direction of the door. The masked man sat on the edge of the bed, the black fabric of his leg visible near the level of her chest. Despite his imprisonment here, his shoes were spotless, his clothes clean; he took evident care in his appearance.

"No matter what happens," he murmured, almost so quietly she did not hear him, "do not speak, do not come out."

 _No matter what happens?_ She trembled at the thought.

The door swung open, and Christine saw the boots of two men enter the small room, their footsteps scuffing as though they had been drinking.

"Evening, corpse," said one, and Christine could smell the stink of alcohol on his breath. "I see you're waiting for us like a good little pet."

"Watch out, Leclair," said the second man, who must be Plamondon laughing. "I have heard this one sometimes bites."

"Nah, he never does anything… besides refusing to do what we want him to do." Leclair strutted closer. "Feel like cooperating yet?"

The masked man did not give a reply Christine could hear, but whatever he did made the first man growl in anger. He swung back and snatched up a long rod from just outside the door.

"Off with the mask, monster, unless you want me to break it."

A few whispers of sound, and he must have done something, because Plamondon suddenly stumbled backward. " _Fuck_ , that never gets any easier. Jesus Christ, can't you let him leave it on?"

"Nah," Leclair said. "Not if I want to bruise him up properly."

Christine could not see what happened next, but Leclair's boots twisted a little, and there was a wet crack of wood against skin. The voice's leg – but no, he was not a voice any longer, but this poor, wretched, caged man – jerked. Another thump, this time sounding against fabric, and another. The black mask toppled onto the floor near Christine's widened, tearful eyes. The man's feet perched on their toes, as though he were curling inward, and there was another whump of wood making brutal contact.

Christine thought she might be sick, right there under the mattress. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her own cries. The beating continued for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally, Leclair threw the stick away with a snarl of disgust. "You are never any fun anymore. Maybe they'll dispose of you sooner rather than later, freak. Come on, we've a load to deliver."

Plamondon spat on the floor near the wall. "Jesus Christ, I almost think you enjoy that."

"What does it matter? He's lower than a dog at this point."

Both men trudged out of the room, slamming the door behind them and tossing what sounded like a half dozen locks. Christine waited until their footsteps climbed the stairs out of the basement, waited until their bickering faded into nothing, waited longer still. Tears pooled in the corner of one of her eyes and spilled onto the concrete beneath her other. The man sitting above her had not moved in that span of time.

Then, when she thought she could peel herself off the concrete, she scooted backward until she was out from under the bed and scrubbed at her face. She saw him, his back a hulking arch as he leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, his face cupped in his long-fingered hands. He did not tremble, nor did he make a sound, but his posture spoke far louder than any words ever could.

Tentatively, slowly, she walked around the edge of the bed until she stood before him. His hands covered the length of his face, all except ribbons of puckered skin along the edges of his scalp. She could see a red welt forming along the side of his thin hair.

His black mask still lay on the floor at his feet, and she could do little at this moment than restore his dignity. She bent and picked it up, and the fabric was surprisingly heavy. Then, she held it out to him.

"Turn away," he said, voice thick. "Please."

She did as he requested, twisting her torso so she could no longer see him. She felt him take the mask from her fingers, and in a moment, he had replaced it upon his face. When she thought it was safe, she looked down at him, but his golden eyes were fixed upon the floor.

"I am going to the police," she said, and stepped away.

But she only made it a few steps before his spindly fingers suddenly encasing her wrist had brought her up short. She jerked her head around to stare down at him, but he was still looking at the floor, eyes fixed upon some unknown point.

"You cannot," he said in a strained tone. "For almost two years, I have dwelt down here, and no one has managed to successfully expose my existence. If the gendarmerie arrived now, who do you believe they would blame?"

She drew in a sharp breath. "My father. Or me."

"Yes."

He was right. Who else would suddenly take issue with the fact that a man was in shackles beneath the Manufacture d'Armes? If not Papa, then it was her. Either way, they would be tossed back onto the streets.

Or worse.

Christine had just born witness to the horrific actions of two men – two men who were employees of MASE – who were clearly used to beating someone for no reason than the fact that he existed. What might they do to her father or her if she was the reason the police arrived?

"It is not right," she said, tears thickening her throat.

"It is the reality of this world," he replied in a way that caused her to realize that this man had been through much more than a mere beating. They had called him a corpse, a monster, a freak, and mentioned that this man had been refusing to do whatever it was they had been asking him to do.

Christine stared down at the fingers surrounding her wrist, at the gray twinge to his skin, at the coarseness of his grip, and at the bony litheness of those digits. She followed the line of his long arm to his mask. Here, closer to him as she was, she could just make out the sallow skin around the eye cutouts of the mask. Was the rest of him the same as his hands?

What other kinds of horrors had he experienced merely by existing?

Those unnaturally yellow eyes swiveled to alight on her, burning in their intensity. He had caught her staring.

"I do not need your pity, girl," he snapped.

Her pulse quickened, but not in fear. If he had want to hurt her, he could have easily done so by now. If she pressed her fingertips to his wrist once again, would his heart beat as quickly as hers? Her mind burned with a hundred questions that she could not ask.

"Perhaps not," she replied softly. _But I am in need of a friend, and perhaps… so are you._ She gathered her courage. "Would you let go my wrist, monsieur?"

He did so immediately, snatching his hand back as though she had struck him. However, those golden eyes widened when she presented her hand, palm down.

"My name is Christine."

His chest expanded as though he had taken in a large breath and then held it. Then, slowly, as though in pain and attempting to hide it, he rose to his feet. He reached out his own hand and gently encased her fingers with his own.

"Erik."

Her lips twisted, trying to offer a smile but too consumed by what she had just witnessed to fully curl upward. She did not press him for a full name and did not give her own. In this space, exchanged names brought reality into sharp focus and gave life to that which had recently only been voices traded in the dark.

They spoke little after that. When they had waited long enough for the men to have left, Christine climbed out through the window with a promise to return tomorrow night. She could feel his – Erik's – eyes upon her until she rounded the corner in the courtyard. Her feet dashed up the flights of stairs to the apartment as fast as she could, terrified that she might be caught.

She realized only after she had made it back to her room that she had torn a large hole in the outer layer of her bodice's hem. Her burgundy skirts were covered in a thick layer of grime.

She had all but ruined the fine satin of one of the dresses Raoul had bought her.


	4. Cowardice

**A bit of a longer chapter to make up for the longer wait. :)**

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Cowardice**

Her eyes cracked open, blearily taking in the white walls of her new home. The chill in the morning air nipped at her cheeks and made her burrow down in her blankets. Last night must have been a cold one again, the Parisian autumn eager to turn so readily into winter. However, Christine did not know for certain how cold last night had gotten.

She had not gone to the courtyard since that night she had first seen Erik.

She had meant to. Like before, she had waited for her father's snores to fill the apartment, waited longer until the sidewalk beneath her window had thinned of the people promenading. Upon the edge of her bed, she had sat until she had heard distant church bells toll ten o'clock. And then eleven o'clock. Her candle had burned low, so she had blown it out and lit her lantern. For a moment, she had lifted it, ready to venture outside.

But her heart had pounded fiercely in her chest, her hand shaking as it held the lantern aloft. Terror had squeezed her throat, and she had faltered. In a rush, with shaking hands and tears blurring her vision, she had torn off her outer clothing and thrown herself into her bed.

The sound of the rod hitting Erik's head and then his body in repeated blows still echoed in Christine's ears. She had been able to see the way his leg jerked with each thud and hear the soft hiss of his pained breath. She had seen that look in his eyes when they alighted on her, the desperate seething, the embarrassment that floated in those golden daggers that she had been witness to such barbarism.

The next night, she had again wavered at her door, trying to prompt herself to leave. And the next night, and the night after, she had merely dressed for bed and buried herself in her covers until sleep had finally drawn her away from thinking about what she had done.

She was such a coward.

Christine pulled the blanket over her head. Maybe if she clenched her eyes shut, she could pretend for a moment that none of this had happened. She had only been singing to herself in that courtyard, and no one had answered her. Certainly not a towering man in a black mask, whose silvery voice and piercing eyes still haunted her memory. Certainly, she had not abandoned him in his hour of need… had she?

A knock upon her door, and Charles entered. Christine blinked at him from the top of her coverlet.

"It is not like you to sleep in," he said, coming in to sit on the edge of her bed. "Are you ill, daughter mine?"

She cleared the morning thickness from her throat. "No, Papa." She sat up, tossing her messy hair off her neck. "I am sorry – I should have gotten up to fix your coffee."

He waved a hand. "You do enough to take care of your old man."

"You are not that old," she said, a smile tugging at her lips.

"Old enough to have a daughter who is already a woman, who will be married and gone to live with her husband as quickly as I might blink." He looked at her with such sad fondness that she almost blurted right then and there her doubts about Raoul. Her lunch with the Vicomte yesterday had not gone well.

"I am still here now, Papa," she said instead.

"Yes, you are!" He clapped his hands upon his knees and jumped to his feet. "I must be off to work. They are expecting a new shipment today. Do not linger too long in bed, daughter-mine."

"Yes, Papa."

He left, and for a moment, Christine let herself do just that. Her bed was warm, and she was not ready to face the rest of the day – and the night – just yet. She lay there, thinking back to a few days ago, when her father had come into her room like he had this morning and announced he wanted to spend the day with her.

* * *

"It is Sunday," her father had said, "and I have half the day off. After I do my rounds this morning, how about we explore the city together?"

Christine brightened, now fully smiling. "That sounds like exactly what I need."

"I will be back by eleven." Bending, he kissed her forehead and strode out of the room, shutting her door to give her privacy.

Despite the chilly autumn air, the sunshine warmed their faces as they strode along the streets of Paris arm in arm. Christine could almost believe that they were just another normal duo going for a stroll after church, despite that they had not attended mass since her mother had passed away. Christine wore the dark blue day-dress Raoul had bought for her, and although Papa's suit had patches on the elbows, Christine imagined they were like any other middle-class family, even if they were assuredly not.

When other couples mingled inside the upscale restaurants along the streets for brunch, Christine and her father stopped at a street vendor for half a baguette and a link of pork sausage to split. Christine did not mind the simple fair – both were hot, and Papa was in such a cheerful disposition that he also dipped into a bakery to buy them both an individual almond macaron.

"Let us sit and enjoy the view," Charles said after they entered a small park. The fountain nearby swept a chilly mist in their direction, but Christine did not mind. Her lungs were full of fresh air, and she had been free of that office building for a few hours.

Her father passed a macaron to her, and she held the delicate meringue carefully between her fingers, nibbling only a little to make the sweet treat last. Charles, in true fashion, ate his in two bites and spent far longer brushing the crumbs from his thick mustache.

Together, they watched the birds twitter about the fountain for a while. Until her father cleared his throat.

"How are you enjoying our new home so far, Christine?"

She shifted on the wooden bench and took a small bite of her macaron, stalling to order her thoughts. "It is quite comfortable, Papa."

"Comfortable, yes." He leaned his elbows on the back of the bench and tilted his face upward to catch the sunlight filtered through the thinning branches overhead. "We have a roof over our heads and wood for our fire. We have running water and our own beds. I could certainly call it _comfortable_."

He was chewing on the inside of his cheek in that way he did when his mind was moving more than his mouth. Her father had been far more open when Mama had been alive; they had shared everything with each other, their conversations lively and candid. Now he seemed to be weighing his next words.

"Is something the matter, Papa?" she asked quietly.

"No." He ran a hand over his face. "Yes. I cannot lie to you, Christine, I am grateful to the Vicomte for getting this job for me and ensuring that we have a place to live. But I am beginning to suspect that this company is not the sort I would normally go to work for."

She took a deep breath and let it out steadily, trying to calm her own nerves. "What do you mean?"

On the bench, he straightened, but she caught the way he glanced over his shoulder and then around the park. She kept her own eyes fixed upon him. Was he afraid someone might hear his complaints?

He lowered his voice. "I am merely their groundskeeper, so I don't expect them to keep me informed of everything that happens around the place. I thought I was supposed to check that everyone coming in and out had the appropriate badges, but I was quickly asked to stop. Even though I was given a set of master keys, there are doors that even I can't open."

Christine thought of Erik's room in the basement but said nothing.

"Of course, this could be nothing. The company is called Manufacture d'Armes de St-Etienne, after all. Since they deal in weapons, I would expect everyone to be a little jumpy."

"Weapons?"

"Rifles, mostly. They build them in St-Etienne and sell them to the French government." He sighed and laid one of his broad hands atop hers. "I should not be burdening you with this, Christine. I just… do not like some of the people who deal behind closed doors. They are not the sort a reputable company should employ."

"I wonder if Raoul knows any of this," Christine said. She thought about the two men who had visited Erik, about the way they had jeered at him – beaten him. She felt suddenly sick to her stomach, a heavy pit of guilt growing there that she could not shake.

"I should hope not. He only recently joined MASE. He assured me he was on a path to make changes."

Could that be it? As Raoul became more influential within the company, he could fire anyone who was not respectable. Maybe he would discover Erik on his own and alert the police who they should arrest for cruelty. Christine had worried that telling the police herself would put her father in danger, but if Raoul did it himself…

Charles squeezed her hand. "I don't tell you all of this to make you worry, dearest. But I want you to be careful about who you speak to and where you venture in the building. Stay to the main stairway and only venture out of the apartment during the day." His brown eyes were in earnest. "Promise me, Christine."

How could she lie to her father, especially when he was only worried for her safety? Far too many secrets separated her from him, but she could not shake the dread pooling in her belly. She was not exactly trustworthy at keeping promises lately: she had already made a promise to another man last night and broken it.

"Of course, Papa. I promise."

That Sunday afternoon, they had shopped for the week's meals at the market together. Charles had received a bit of pay for his five days of work, and he promised that as soon as he received his full payment on Friday, they would enjoy more than stew together. Christine herself was happy to merely have something to eat.

They had returned to the apartment to find a note shoved under their door – a letter from Raoul asking that she have lunch with him again tomorrow. Her father had merely cupped her cheek with a smile and went to unpack their small parcels.

Dinner was more of the same – vegetable stew with a bit of grisly meat they had found for a fair enough price. However, this time, they prepared it together, cutting the potatoes and carrots side-by-side and taking turns stirring the pot. They traded memories of their travels together, though the topic never strayed to the missing member of their family.

The fire in the hearth burning low, Charles yawned. "Work begins early in the morning," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The storage room at the back of the building must be cleaned. Did I tell you they keep a dog in one of the rooms of the basement?"

Christine felt as though someone had thrown cold water in her face. "A-a dog?"

 _"He is lower than a dog at this point."_

Charles nodded. "I asked if I should take over feeding it, but my supervisor said one of the cleaning staff is responsible for its care." He stood, carrying his tea cup over to the sink. "Another reason you should not wander this place, Christine."

She followed him to the kitchen. "You settle into bed, Papa. I can clean this up."

They exchanged kisses and good nights, and Charles headed off to his room. With only the crackling fire to accompany her, Christine set to washing the dishes they had used for dinner and ensuring the rest of the vegetables were properly stored for tomorrow's meal. Then she sat and unfolded Raoul's letter, rereading the slanted, well-taught script.

 _Dearest Christine,_

 _Please give me the pleasure of having lunch with me tomorrow. Will you wear the dress with the roses? I promise to give you flowers to match._

 _-R_

Bringing the bodice of that same burgundy dress over to the fire, she examined the torn fabric. She had already attempted to mend it, but the rip that cut across the ribs was too long and obvious to hide. Perhaps if she told me she had fallen and torn it, he would send it off to a real seamstress to fix.

More lies on top of lies.

The next few days had passed relatively uneventfully. Raoul had picked her up for another lunch, but he had only taken her straight to a restaurant – another traditionally French place – and back to the apartment. Most of their conversation had steered toward light topics like the changing weather, some new men Raoul had hired, and a brief mention of Christine's missing dress, which she, in stretching the truth without outright lying, admitted had been damaged in an incident with a cooking fire.

When her father asked her how her day out with Raoul went, she had not had the heart to tell him any details.

* * *

Now, Christine rose from her bed with a sluggish reluctance, her heart heavy and her mind lost in thought. Nothing here in Paris was going the way she thought it might. After another uneventful day, she finished doing Papa's mending and put away her supplies. It would be such an easy thing to lay down in her bed and let herself slip away to sleep once again.

Five full days had passed since she had met the man in the basement, and she could almost push away the memory of his burning eyes staring at her from within a black mask. She could almost forget the sound of metal chains scraping against concrete, or the taste of his voice in her ear.

But she could not forget the thud of the rod against his body, nor his biting remark:

 _"I do not need your pity, girl."_

He had done little else than treat her civilly. He had asked to hear her sing and given her praise when she had. When she had ignored his warning, he had protected her.

And she had repaid him by vanishing.

She thought of Erik alone in that tiny room, of the heavy shackles around his wrists, of how much he had enjoyed her singing... And she remembered the way she had felt every day for the past five days, knowing that she had not gone to see him when she said she would.

The church bells signaled the approaching late hour. With methodical slowness, Christine removed her outer layers, unbuttoning her bodice and untying her skirts and bustle until she stood in chemise and corset. Then she pulled on her cream-colored wrapper, which covered her neck to wrist to ankle, and belted it securely at the waist. Knowing the night was cold, she tied her cloak around her neck and pulled the hood over her loose curls.

If she was going to leave, she should now. Taking up her lantern, she slipped from the apartment, closing the door softly behind her.

Her father's warnings rang in her ears as she made her way downstairs. This place was not safe, especially at night, and yet she kept going anyway, seeking each step carefully in the dark. How strange to think of an empty building as dangerous when she was willingly making her way to a masked, imprisoned man.

She consoled herself by focusing on the fact that it was Wednesday night and not Friday. Erik had said the men only came on Fridays, had he not?

Reaching the heavy wooden door that led to the courtyard, she pried it open and slipped into the chilly night.

Four nights had passed since she had sat upon this stone bench. Her time felt like an eternity ago, the cold stone foreign under her, the nocturnal sounds haunting her ears. Her hands clasped tightly in her lap, the lantern on the bench next to her. For a while, she only sat. The curtains on Erik's window were tightly closed.

She considered singing, but this chilly air was so cold that she feared damaging her throat. "Erik?" she ventured, calling into the night.

Only silence greeted her. Perhaps he was gone, or perhaps he was ignoring her. She deserved either. She sat until she could bear it no more, and she straightened, crossing the pathway to his little window and kneeling beside it, not caring that she dampened the skirt of her wrapper.

Gathering her courage, she tapped her knuckles against the window, the frigid glass biting her skin.

"Are you there?" she asked quietly. "It is me – C-Christine."

No reply. Her throat closed at the rejection. She tested the window and found it latched from the inside.

Against her wishes, tears welled up in her eyes. "I am sorry, so sorry. Please answer if you are there."

Again, nothing. Long moments passed until the rough path began to dig through her layers into her shins. Her breath painted white wisps in front of her face.

And then, softly, curling against her cheek: "The little bird lives."

She let out a sob of relief. "She does, and she is so utterly sorry. Please, may I come in?"

"If you must."

The curtain rustled, and she saw a thin, gray hand throw the latch. When the hand retreated, she pushed the window open and made her way inside, this time careful not to catch her clothing. With no fire going, the temperature inside the small room was only slightly better than that outside.

She pulled her lantern in with her, and the glow landed upon Erik. He was seated on the edge of his bed, his back a straight line. His black suit was rumpled as though he had spent several days in it. He did not greet her, and she slipped hesitantly from the table, straightening her clothing.

She forced her tongue to move. "Are-are you well?"

In response, he lifted both of his hands, showing her the manacles encircling his wrists. "I am alive, and I suppose that is enough for now. When you did not come, I thought perhaps you had been foolish enough not to heed my warning and had therefore gone to the police." He tilted his head up slightly, golden eyes glittering from the shadows of his black mask, considering her. "But here you are, still quite alive."

Guilt washed over her again. "I did not tell anyone about you, not even Papa. He said himself that he was worried about the company's activities, and I knew I must remain silent."

"So, you do have the ability to listen, at least once in a while."

She stared down at the concrete floor, unable to meet his intense gaze any longer. "Monsieur Erik, I-"

"You were frightened."

Her cheeks blazed in a mix of shame and mortification. "Yes."

"Of me."

Ready to protest, she jerked her head up to stare at him. He had not moved from his position on the edge of the mattress, and she realized that he was of a height with her when seated. Had he stayed sitting in order to keep from scaring her?

She found she could not answer his inquiry.

His eyes did not waver as he shifted upon the bed, moving closer to her without standing. Yes, he _was_ taking care not to appear imposing due to his height, and that realization made the knot inside of her bubble to the surface.

She did not realize he had reached out to her until she felt an icy touch upon one of her cheeks below her lashes. Emitting a startled gasp, she took a step back and saw his hand raised, the edge of one finger now damp.

"You are crying," he stated. His head tilted to the side. "Because of me?"

"Because I am _sorry_." She swiped at her cheeks, shoving away the annoying tears. "I am so sorry that I did not come when I said I would, but those men – what they did to you – I thought if I ignored what had happened, then I could forget, but I couldn't forget, I _couldn't_ stop seeing and hearing what had happened to you." His hand still hovered in midair, and she snatched it up now, clinging to the frigid fingers. "I _am_ sorry, for not coming, for being such a coward."

Although her gloves separated her fingers from his, she could feel their slight tremble. He tried to tug them back, but she held fast. "A coward would not have come here tonight," he stated rather breathlessly.

She shook her head within her cloak's hood, but she did not argue with him. "You were kind to me. I should not have treated you like that."

"Kind?" When he tried to take back his hand again, she let him. She did not miss the way he rubbed at his own knuckles. "Many words have been used to describe me, little bird. _Kind_ has never been one of them."

She thought of what those two men had called him and suppressed a shudder. Was that what they thought of him when his mask was off, when his face was revealed? "Even so, it is now, monsieur. When I first came to the courtyard, you encouraged my singing. No one has done that since…" She trailed off, unsure how much she wanted to reveal about herself to this man.

"Since?" he prompted.

If she told him about herself, would he repay her in kind?

"Since my mother died six years ago. Papa used to play the violin, and Mama was beautiful on the piano. I would sing. But when Mama passed away, all of the music ended. Papa would not allow it any longer."

"Grief manifests itself in different ways."

She stared at him. "Yes, it does." Biting the edge of her lip, she ventured, "You seem to know something of music yourself."

"Indeed," he stated, eyes glittering. "I have a bit of talent myself, and I have long studied the art of it. I should like to hear you again."

Flushing, she replied as nonchalantly as possible, "All I really know about you is your name. If you would tell me something of yourself… I would gladly sing."

Oh, the way those golden eyes bored into hers. Not for the first time, she wished that she could see his facial expressions to deduce more about what he was thinking. She managed to resist the urge to pull her cloak more tightly about her.

"What would you desire to know, curious little bird?" he said at length. "There are some answers that ought to remain as buried as I am." A note of warning colored his voice.

She tried to start easy. "W-Where did you live before here?"

"I have lived many places, but I have lived in Paris most of all." He extended a hand. "And you?"

"I was born in Sweden – you know that. I spent most of my childhood traveling around Europe before my mother died. I have lived in France ever since. How long have you been back here in Paris?"

"It has been a number of years since I have traveled – six, I believe. I thought to settle here."

She fiddled with the cuff of her wrapper. "But now?"

"For now, the choice has been taken from me." He mirrored her action, though he tugged at one of his manacles rather than the white edge of his shirtsleeve. "Any more questions?"

She swallowed, but she would not get a better chance. "You said you were chained down here because you had refused to do what people wanted."

"Christine."

It was the first time he had used her name. The crackle of the first syllable followed by the crispness of the second sent a delighted shiver racing up her spine. He said her name with a mix of warning entangled with something else she could not decipher.

"And those two men," she continued. "They came here to try to convince you to do this for them?"

" _Christine_." Now the edge in his voice had grown.

"What are they wanting you to do?"

"Why," he asked thickly, "do you need to know?"

She straightened her spine, jutting out her chin. "Papa told me he believes this company is up to something, maybe something… illegal? I want to protect him like he has always tried to protect me. I am worried about him, Monsieur Erik, worried that he is staying in this job because without it, we are on the streets. But if we stay here, and his intuitions are correct, then our very lives could be in danger."

When she stepped toward him, he recoiled slightly before recovering. Christine realized that perhaps Erik was as wary of her as she was of him. She kept her hands down lest he thought she was going for his mask, but gestured at his chains.

"Why do they have you bound like a prisoner down here? What did you refuse to do for them?"

He stared at her, eyes roaming over her face as though he were studying her. "I did not refuse at first," he whispered. "Not at first."

"Not at first?"

She yelped when he abruptly stood with a clank of metal, one of the heavy chains bumping into her knees. If he had not used his height for intimidation, he certainly seemed to be doing so now, towering over her. The light of the lantern caught his eyes, turning them an eerie, almost colorless pale yellow.

When he spoke, his voice rumbled through her, unhindered by the mask that covered his mouth. "You do not need details about my existence to know that there is more than one thing rotten about this place. Prying further will cause you nothing but misery. As I told you, Mademoiselle Daaé, there are some answers _you do not want to hear_."

She sucked in a sharp breath. "How do you know my full name?"

"I have ears, do I not, and plenty of idle time to eavesdrop on conversations. The employees here have enjoyed their gossip about the new groundskeeper and his pretty young daughter."

"You're… you're trying to frighten me on purpose." Even though he leaned over her, she refused to take a step backward. "And if I asked a question, then I am clearly prepared to hear the answer, whatever that may be."

Their eyes locked for a moment, and then he spun away, moving the short distance to the concrete wall at the head of his bed. She noticed for the first time that his chains were bolted to the other side of the bedframe, and she wondered how far they could reach in this small space. He stood facing the wall, the broad line of his shoulders stiff with tension.

"I have… enjoyed our fleeting time together," he said, so quietly she had to strain to hear him. "From the moment I heard you sing, a new breath stirred inside of me that I had long since believed dead. I will carry the memory of your voice with me always."

His words made her shudder. They sounded like the final words of a dying man, or of someone who was about to be parted from someone else forever.

"I have seen much in my lifetime, Christine. I have _done_ much. But while I am responsible for my own destruction within this stone prison, I will certainly not be responsible for yours."

"D-Destruction?" she echoed, reaching up to grasp at her own collar as though that would somehow shield her from his meaning. "All I want to do is _understand_ , Erik."

He spun around. " _There is no understanding_!" His bellow bounced off the walls around them, slamming into her with a force as staggering as if he had hit her with his fist. "There is only living until you are dead," he snarled, striding to her on long legs. "Only the strong preying upon the weak, the rich in spirit upon the poor, those with power upon those without. If you have nothing, then you will always only have nothing!"

She staggered back, putting out a warding hand, but he still advanced. His chains snaked along the floor. For a moment, she wondered if she could flee out the window quick enough, but she instead stumbled backwards in the room as he stalked toward her with the grace of a feline predator.

"Did I not tell you that this is the way of the world, foolish songbird?" he growled, eyes ablaze. "There is only cruelty, only judgement, only resentment. There is only fear and pain, and sometimes in the darkness, you cannot tell one from the other."

Even as the sharp angles of his shoulders promoted his rage, his voice betrayed him, catching on his last few words. Her back hit the far wall, the cold stone digging into her layers. She knew her blue eyes were huge within her face, her breath coming out in harsh pants. Erik placed one hand on either side of her head, palms flat on the wall, chains hanging from his wrists. He smelled of burnt wood and darkness and wet stone. She could feel the tension of his large, narrow body pulsing off him in waves.

He shoved his masked face close, and she could hear his own breath beating against the fabric. "The answer to your question would tear you apart." She heard him swallow thickly. "Do not make me answer, Christine, do not make me…"

"All right," she said, voice more breath than words. "All right."

Silence left her with only her pounding heartbeat in her ears. She had wanted to know what had led to his imprisonment, to fully understand if he had done anything to deserve such treatment. If he had, if this was a mere prison for a criminal, then she could move forward without this gnawing guilt. But if he had not, then she had no choice but to seek any solace for him that she could possible give.

He suddenly slammed his palms to either side of her head, making her yelp in fear. "Then get out, stupid girl! Leave this place and forget you ever saw me, forget what has happened here, forget anything I have told you. If you value your life, then you _must go!_ "

Her thoughts spun in confusion. How suddenly he had twisted his disposition toward her. Truly, how much did she know about this man? He had revealed only snippets, and now, staring at him wild-eyed, she realized that perhaps she had made a terrible mistake in coming here.

As she wavered with indecision, he pulled one hand to his mask, long fingers grasping the topography of the black fabric. "Don't make me do it, little bird," he said throatily. "I will if I must."

He was using his _face_ as a threat. She gave a gasp at the horror of it all, that he would truly believe his appearance enough to terrorize her into leaving, that perhaps his true visage, his own facial features, _was_ as terrifying as he himself believed.

She shut her eyes lest he pull his mask away. "Please," she begged. "Please, I-I'll go."

" _Then go_!" he snarled.

With a dry sob, she ducked around his elbow. She dashed for the window, picking up her skirts, and had a knee braced on the table to climb when her peripheral vision caught sight of him. Pale hands fisted, Erik pounded the stone wall where she had been, the span of his shoulders quivering, head bowed as though in great pain.

 _"There is only fear and pain, and sometimes in the darkness, you cannot tell one from the other."_

Whatever he had done, who was she to offer up any judgement? Before she could consider otherwise, she slid her knee from the table and turned back toward him.

 _"There is only cruelty."_

Christine had witnessed cruelty before. She had seen what happened to people who could not afford a safe place to live or good food to eat. But she knew now she had likely never witnessed what this man had suffered, nor seen these atrocities he said he had committed. Her heart ached. Watching him as he was, she could not leave no matter if he _did_ reveal his face to her.

Gathering her breath as she gathered her courage, she stepped behind him and wound her arms around his torso.


	5. Gifts

**Ah, thank you so much for keeping me motivated!**

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

 _"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing."_

One of Christine's earliest memories was being enfolded by her mother's arms.

Her parents had struggled to conceive, and her mother spent every free moment giving physical affection – a touch of a hand, a quick squeeze, a tickle along Christine's ribs. Even when Christine had grown too old to fit comfortably upon Mama's lap, she did not mind the embraces; her mother seemed to need the constant reassurances of Christine's presence.

When she had died, the affection had died with her. Her father, who used to join in with his warm, solid bear-hugs, grew distant in every way possible. For six years, Christine had received little more than a touch of hands from anyone, or sometimes a kiss on the forehead from her father.

 _"Little Lotte let her mind wander."_

Raoul loved to tease her and call her by this nickname, which he had picked up from Papa. Her father had first hummed the tune one evening while the three of them sat by a fire. At the late hour, the inn was clearing out, most of the tourists visiting southern France going to bed for the night. Lost in thought about the past, Christine had stared into the flames until her father and Raoul had shared a laugh about her distractedness.

She had not truly enjoyed the joke at her expense, but if teasing her made her father chuckle again, she would allow it. The nickname had stuck with Raoul.

 _"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing."_

Perhaps she _was_ distracted more often than not nowadays, but her mind so often drifted to the past, to those joyful years that had been full of music and laughter and warmth.

The feel of the rigid torso within her arms snapped her back into sharp focus on the present. She had shoved aside her fears and thrown herself against Erik's back. He had drawn a ragged breath upon contact, loud within the space of quiet night, and had frozen in place. He could have been a statue for all he moved and breathed.

In those few seconds, she grasped onto the front of his clothing, one hand fisting the lapel of his coat, another catching on the buttons of his waistcoat. He was not warm, not in the way hugging someone else might be, forgiving flesh stretched across a living being. He was all hard angles, the plane of his waist flat against her hands, his back a line of tension.

Her lips moved against the rough linen of his coat. "I-I know that sometimes it is difficult to see beyond where we are, but there is more to life than pain, Erik."

He trembled, the slight movement all he had made, like the body's response to a change in temperature. She squeezed her arms to ensure it was clear that she meant this as an embrace and not simply her clinging to him. Her mother had always made these a statement of comfort.

"When my mother passed on," she continued softly, "I thought I might never recover. My father… he shut himself away from me, and for a twelve-year-old girl, to suddenly go from warmth and light to silence and loneliness – I thought I might as well have followed Mama. But gradually, I found my purpose again. My father needed someone to help him learn how to live again, and I decided to be that for him. He spoke again, looked at me again, and even though… even though music never returned to us, _he_ did to me."

She fell back into silence, her throat closing with unshed tears. Within her arms, Erik's diaphragm expanded as he took a dragging breath, sucking in a shudder of air. He straightened enough to bring his hands from the stone wall, and she felt the icy touch of his fingers upon hers. She thought he might pry her off him, but he only covered her hands with his.

"Your father-" His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Your father did a terrible thing. You were only a child."

She only curled her lips upward, her cheek pressed against his back. "It is easy to judge other people's grieving and so difficult to see beyond our own."

Now he did detach her fingers from his clothing, using the utmost care not to harm her. She expected him to let go of her hands, but as he turned around to face her, he kept them cupped within the wide breadth of his. She chanced to look upward to meet his eyes – they were dark amber and watery.

"Erik, I just want you to understand that I am not a child. I am stronger than maybe you believe I am." _I can handle whatever comes my way. Given enough time and patience, I can handle it._

Behind the holes in his mask, she saw his eyes widen. "Yes," he murmured, "I am beginning to realize this." He released her hands, taking a step back from her. "I apologize for trying to frighten you away."

She shook her head. "No need. I… I should not have pried into matters that meant this much to you."

"If I ever bid you to leave again, it will be because your life is truly in danger. Will you listen then?"

She sucked in a breath. Was he asking her to trust him, fully trust him, when he told her to leave? Her mind still spun with her questions, with all that had been left unsaid between them. Would she ever find out the truth about why he was down here, why those men had said the things they had, why he had been so insistent just now that she leave?

She had to trust him.

"Yes, I will."

At that, he nodded. "I must rest now. You… will come again tomorrow, yes?"

"Yes," she said again.

He moved away while she went to the table. As she climbed up with care that her skirts remained in place, she ventured a glance back into the small room. Erik was bent over a basin in the far corner of the room, his black mask pushed upward so that it rested mostly atop his head. He was splashing water on his face, his back to her.

Christine climbed out and did not look back again.

* * *

Her father stormed into the apartment, almost slamming the door behind him. Stalking to the fireplace where Christine sat with the mending, he tossed their mail in a heap upon the table and sat down with a huff.

"Something wrong, Papa?" she asked.

His face was dark with anger, and he pulled at his beard in that way he did when agitated. "I asked one of the account managers when I might see the full payment of my salary that is due me, and I was told I would have to wait until Monday to get an answer! Four more days, just to find out when!"

She winced. They had little money for food, much less other supplies they needed. They both were on their last candles, and Christine would feel guilty over the oil she was burning at night if MASE did not refill it every morning for Papa's use. She supposed they could both go longer without a soapy bath, but she was longing for a little cream for her chapped hands.

She pushed these thoughts away. "Did you tell them we at least needed to eat?"

"I told them even more than that," he spat. "I got the same answer, this time with a threat to remove myself from his office."

"I'm sorry, Papa."

More things to worry about. Bending, she shifted through the mail. It was mostly news pamphlets, but a letter in familiar cream-colored parchment caught her eye. She recognized Raoul's handwriting instantly.

Charles eyed the letter. "At least he didn't slide it under the door this time. Sent it properly."

Christine clicked her tongue at him as she popped the wax seal with her thumb.

 _Little Lotte,_

 _I must see you again this week. Please do me the honor of dinner at 7 o'clock Friday evening. I should be back in town by then._

 _Best wishes,_

 _R_

Charles held out a hand, and she obligingly passed the letter to him.

"Getting demanding, isn't he?" he said after reading it.

She frowned. The thought had also occurred to her. "Dinner, though, this time. There will be more people – more people to notice us." She realized how she sounded, making excuses for Raoul's lack of commitment.

Thankfully, her father only gazed at her, then gave a heavy sigh. "If you do not wish for his affections anymore, I will tell him so, daughter-mine."

"No!" she said quickly. "T-That's not what I meant, Papa." She looked down at the sock in her hands, feeling the blush overcome her cheeks. Even though Charles had never said so, she knew she was only getting older and older. At nineteen, she had entered her best marriage years, but in a few more, she would be older than was preferred. "I am not that familiar with how courting is supposed to progress. I suppose I am more impatient than I ought to be."

"The heart wants what it wants," Charles said, managing a smile.

 _Did_ her heart want Raoul? She realized she had only assumed the Vicomte's affection for her. After they had met and shaken hands, Raoul had become only friendlier over time. There had been little reason for him to continue to join two Swedish travelers at the inn night after night, nor to continue to spend time with Christine. If they were merely to be friends, would he not have said so?

That night, she ventured down to the courtyard to visit Erik. She had hoped the rain from earlier in the day would have stopped, but she could hear the clinking of drizzle upon the cobblestones as soon as she opened the door. Yanking her hood low over her face, she hurried around the bend to the stone bench.

Erik's adjacent window was already cracked open, the glow from his own lantern shining within.

"Join me inside, will you?" came his smooth voice in her ear.

Smiling, she did so without hesitation. As she eased herself through the metal frame and knelt on the table below, she saw the glow came from a fire in the far corner and not a lantern. The room seemed much more comfortable than it had been before, no longer so dark and damp although the sparse furnishings had not changed.

"Welcome," Erik said, his voice speaking again in her ear, even though he stood on the opposite side of the room.

Pulling the window shut against the rain, she slid from the table. "Good evening, Monsieur Erik."

She could not see his lips move, of course, covered as they were by his mask. His eyes sparkled in the glow of the fire. "Good evening, Mademoiselle Daaé," he said in the same manner.

She laughed at the tickle of his voice against the shell of her ear. "How do you do that anyway?"

"How do I do what?" His voice seemed to come from his pillow even though he had not moved. "Is it odd for me to speak to you?"

"Pillows do not typically speak, monsieur," she said, grinning.

"I suppose," said his voice from behind her, "that windows do not typically engross in conversation either?"

"No, indeed!" She untied her damp cape and laid it across the table, jumping back when it too began to speak.

"Thank you for taking such care with me, little bird."

"You are very welcome," she said, laughing with delight.

Erik stepped closer with a clank of chains. She noticed he had taken better care with his appearance tonight, his clothes straightened, his shoes shined. With his mischievousness, he did seem to be in better spirits as well.

"It is a form of ventriloquism," he explained. "I throw my voice in whichever direction I choose." He tapped a long finger against his mask. "The fact that you cannot see my lips move aids the illusion." He folded his thin arm across his waist and gave a small bow. "I am glad to see you, despite the rain."

"And I am glad you have a fire!"

"Indeed. They do not want me to die down here, after all. At least not yet."

Some of Christine's mirth vanished as quickly as blowing out a flame at the reminder of his imprisonment. She wanted to ask who he meant by "they," and how many people knew about his existence. But she had hoped to keep tonight focused upon more cheerful topics.

She cleared her throat. "Would you like for me to sing?"

His golden eyes lit up. "Yes, my little songbird, I would." His head tilted just so to the side, contemplative. "Perhaps a singing lesson?"

"A-A lesson?" She had not considered such a thing, even though he did seem to have some knowledge of the subject. Her fingers twisted in her skirt as nervousness overcame her.

Erik appeared to notice her unease. He spread his hands placatingly. "Only so much as you would allow. I have studied the craft, and I… sing myself."

That piqued her interest. "Would you sing for me afterward?"

"I am afraid the damp cold down here has not been welcoming. If I can sustain a fire enough to heal, then I will do so."

"It is a promise then." She hesitated. How odd to simply stand here, in this tiny room, and sing while facing someone who was also standing and staring back at her. Singing alone outside had been much easier. So many years had passed since she had sung in front of someone. "Shall I warm up first?"

"Please."

Forcing her arms at her sides, she thought for a moment, recalling a time years ago when she had practiced singing as her art rather than her hidden hobby. Her parents had always encouraged her to take her voice work seriously with the thought that it might someday lead to her own self-sufficient security in life. To not be dependent upon someone else while also practicing something one loved was the best gift they could give her.

Her mind grasped onto the scales and drills she had once practiced with utmost familiarity, and she began to sing.

She had barely finished the first set of scales when Erik glided closer. Warily, she watched as he reached out and tucked a bony finger under her chin. A slight pressure caused her to tilt her chin upward – she had been ducking her head.

"Close your eyes," he instructed, "if that is easier."

It was, and she did so. She was aware of his shifting, and then the heels of his palms flattened across her shoulders, extending pressure downward. She had barely noticed the tension she carried there, and she eased them down, realigning her ears with her shoulders. A slight tap of a foot between hers, and she widened her stance a step.

Her warm-up finally faltered when he pressed a hand to her lower back. Her eyes flew open and alighted upon him standing next to her. She could not recall ever being handled in such a way by anyone but her parents; not even Raoul had ever done more than touch her hand.

His hand flitted away at once. "Tilt your pelvis forward, mademoiselle. It will elevate your chest and unlock your knees."

Her knees _had_ been locked, a sure way for her to grow light-headed once she truly began singing. She eyed him apprehensively, but he did appear to know his technique after all.

She could not help the shiver that leapt up her spine when he swept that critical gaze over her. He seemed all business, unaware of the boundary he had just crossed. Even touching her shoulders had been against the rules of propriety, and she recalled the feel of those large palms curving around the points of her shoulders. For a moment, she imagined the roughness of his hands against her own sensitive skin, and then she fled from those thoughts as quickly as turning her heel and running.

Her cheeks heated, but she did not let herself waver. To her surprise, she _wanted_ this lesson, wanted his input on her technique.

"Is my posture satisfactory now, Maestro?" she said, unable to keep the cheekiness from her tone.

Those fiery eyes flew to hers, searching. He had not missed the title she had given him, but if he saw the blush along her cheeks, he said nothing of it.

"As long as you hold it, then yes," he replied curtly, but she heard the way his voice broke on the first word. "Shall we start with something by Mozart?"

It was at least another hour before she sneaked back inside her own room, and longer yet before her thoughts settled down enough for her to sleep.

* * *

Christine had only just begun to cut up the few vegetables they had left to make a thin stew for dinner, when her father entered the apartment.

"You're home early, Papa," she said, picking up the knife and beginning to chop with practiced precision.

"Only to drop this off. It arrived just now."

She glanced over, then turned her full attention to him when she saw the large box he carried. Though the package did not seem heavy, he deposited it upon the kitchen table with some weight. "What is it?" she asked, setting down the knife and stepping over.

He gestured to the inscription on the top. "All I know is that it is addressed to you. May I take a peek before I return to my post?"

Christine lifted the lid, revealing a mustard yellow evening gown, the thin straps of the sleeves gathered at each shoulder with a matching bow. Her eyes widened. The color was not one she would have chosen, but from the complicated pleating pattern and buttery fabric, she could tell it had been expensive.

She picked up the card lying atop the bodice. "I look forward to our dinner tonight, Little Lotte" she read aloud.

"The Vicomte?" her father ventured to guess.

Christine had little doubt of who had sent the dress. Raoul seemed determined to have her attire fit whatever venue he had planned. Under different circumstances, she would have been thrilled with such a gift. Now, with hunger pains causing her belly to ache, she wished she could sell such a gown and make her father a proper meal.

She tried a tight-lipped smile. "I can bring up your salary tonight, Papa. See if he knows anything about when you will be paid."

Charles reached over and squeezed her hand. "I do not want awkwardness between you both. Leave it alone."

She bit her lip against her retort. How much longer were they to suffer in silence? This job was supposed to be the turning point in their lives – the beginning of something _better_.

"I have to get back," he said with a sigh, heading toward the door. "I wish I could see you off, but my hours are a bit later tonight, and I have errands to run for restocking as well. I will be here when you return." And then he was gone.

Christine turned her attention back to the box. It really was a pretty gown, the pleating beginning at the bodice and continuing to the hem, as she saw when she pulled it out and draped it across her bed. She wondered how she might get into it by herself, but she found the hidden hook and eye closures down the side of the bodice. Matching gloves came to just above her elbow.

The color would look odd against her skin.

With an angry huff, she tossed the gloves onto the bed. How selfish of her to even think of being ungrateful for such a gift. She needed to put aside her pride, put aside her worry about money, and enjoy tonight. If she wanted a better life for her and her father, she had to do her best to focus on being charming and not bitter.

She put her focus into finishing the stew, her guilt surging with the realization that her father would be eating little more than broth for dinner while she was dining with Raoul. At least she could ensure that the food would be bubbling hot for him tonight.

Later, she dressed by firelight. Like her other recently purchased gowns, the mustard-colored dress fit her form, although it _was_ a bit loose in the bodice. Another symptom of too many weeks with little food. She wished she could fill it out more appropriately; the V-neck cut highlighted her collarbone and begged for a bit more cleavage. This was truly a dinner gown, meant to dazzle with its sensuality.

And Raoul had chosen it just for her. Her face heated at the thought.

She did not have any ornaments to adorn her hair, but at least she could pin her curls in a style she had seen some of the Parisian women wear with a few curls hanging across one of her shoulders. Then she tugged on the silk gloves, took up her wrist bag, and headed out of the apartment.

In the stairwell, a few windows let in the dim light of streetlamps and moonlight. Perhaps she should have brought the lantern to light her way, but she did not want to have to carry it with her. The evening was still early enough that outside would be well lit by gas lamps lining the streets anyway.

Thus it was that she noticed the glow of a lantern on the stairs before she saw the man carrying it.

She had hoped it was only her father back early from his rounds, but it was not. She recognized the man as Leclair immediately, and her blood seemed to turn to ice in her veins, a shiver running up her spine. Her first urge was to press herself to the wall to avoid him or to run back up the stairs to safety.

Instead, she stood frozen upon the landing, only one stairway from escaping this place. Leclair must have just entered from the street, for she could feel a cooler breeze from outside. As he glanced up and caught sight of her, her surge of fear turned to anger. This was the man who had beaten Erik that awful night a week ago, and here he was again, back again to empty the vault and what – pay that poor man a visit once more?

He grinned upon seeing her, the flash of teeth seeming more like grimace than a smile. "'Evening, mademoiselle. You must be Christine – Daaé's daughter."

 _And you must be the monster who enjoys hitting defenseless people._ She did not reply, gripping the railing tightly with one gloved hand.

He looked her up and down. "Not very friendly, are you?"

"Excuse me," she said, taking a step forward to pass him. "I am on my way out."

"Hold on." Leclair moved to cut her off. "A pretty little thing like you shouldn't be wandering about alone, dressed all up as you are. My friend Plamondon isn't as nice as I am. Who knows what he might do if he caught you."

The threat there was clear, but Christine could only think of Erik in his tiny prison, of what might happen should these two men decide to pay him a visit again.

She again tried to skirt around him. "Someone is expecting me, monsieur."

"Who is that?"

Leclair leaned in, and Christine could smell the alcohol on his breath. She scrambled to think of what to say that would make him go away. What could she do but tell the truth?

"The Vicomte de Chagny."

Recognition at the name flashed across Leclair's face. Quickly, he raised his hands up and stepped out of her path. "I didn't mean any harm, mademoiselle. Honest. You tell Monsieur le Vicomte that Leclair was just doing what he was told tonight, all right?"

Christine nodded. "Goodnight, then."

"Have fun." He winked at her. "I'm sure you will."

Feeling cold all over, Christine hurried down the last flight of stairs, forcing her feet to move forward and her eyes to remain focused on her destination. Only after she stepped out the front door did she seem able to breathe again.

A carriage was pulled up to the sidewalk just beyond the door. When she got outside, a footman stepped off the back and opened the side door, gesturing for her to come over.

"Mademoiselle Daaé," he said. "Monsieur le Vicomte has asked us to escort you. If you would, please."

Her heart still pounded from her encounter with Leclair. For a moment, she considered running back inside. She hated the thought of Erik going through another… she could not think the words without feeling sick. But Erik, alone and going through that again…

And yet, what could she possibly do right now? She did not know where her father was. She could not confront Leclair about his actions without exposing herself to potential harm. She didn't understand what had just transpired between her and that dreadful beast of a man. But she did understand this – Leclair knew Raoul. He clearly seemed to worry about what Raoul's reaction would be if he knew the man had harassed Christine.

Christine gave a forced smile to the footman and stepped into the carriage.


	6. Dinner

**Sometimes, the fic wants what it wants.**

* * *

 **Chapter 6: Dinner**

The carriage lurched away from the building. Christine could hear the wheels splashing in puddles along the wet Parisian streets, indicating that the rain must have continued until recently. Despite the damp and chilly weather, life bubbled beyond the border of her carriage. Other stagecoaches rolled past, drivers hollering at each other and people blowing whistles. Music sometimes drifted from venues she passed, often a single piano but once she heard a string quartet.

Such was Paris on a Friday evening, a city that enjoyed its entertainment and opportunities to socialize with the other elite. She could tell when the districts shifted, her ride rolling into Le Marais, the music and noise of voices giving way to spans of silence. Raoul had often talked about his home when he had stayed at the inn where Papa worked, spinning stories of towering mansions overlooking the Seine.

Christine lifted the edge of one of the window curtains to gaze outside. Lit by the street lamps as they were, she could see freestanding _hôtel particulier_ s, a type of mansion with an entrance courtyard and stretches of garden. Each residence extended enormously around their courtyards, grand columns setting off the main living space from the rest of the rooms spanning in either direction. Raoul had told her of a childhood spent hiding from his governess in dozens on rooms, and one could live in a part of the home without stepping foot in over half of it.

The carriage pulled up to an ornate gate, which opened as they arrived, allowing the driver to pull through. Christine caught sight of the magnificent entrance to an estate: four marble columns framing intricately-carved double doors and floor-to-ceiling windows establishing each of the many rooms in neat rows.

Instead of stopping before this front entrance, the stagecoach continued around to the back of the property, entering another smaller, plainer courtyard. When they pulled to a halt, the footman hopped down and opened her door.

Christine hesitated. "Where are we?" She had expected to be brought to a restaurant, not a residence.

"The de Chagny estate," the footman replied. "Monsieur le Vicomte is awaiting inside. If you would?" He gestured for her to exit the carriage.

So, this _was_ Raoul's home. She had known he was wealthy but this… this was beyond what she had imagined. Making sure her hood was fastened over her head, she stepped down from the coach, the cold night air hitting her bare face.

The footman escorted her the short distance to a small brown door. Inside was still rather frigid, and she looked around the narrow, dark hallway. A maid appeared at her elbow to take her cloak and disappeared just as quickly with it.

An older gentleman appeared with a lantern, peering down his nose at her. "Mademoiselle Daaé, I presume?"

She swallowed. "I am."

"This way." He turned and headed down the hall, clearly expecting her to follow. After hesitating, she did.

The further they traveled, the more lanterns they encountered. Christine began to realize that she had been brought inside through the servant's entrance. Even though no one paid her any mind, she felt like she was having to sneak into Raoul's home, stealing through the back as though she was someone nobody wanted to notice.

Eventually, they turned around a bend and entered a large dining room. A fire raged at the head of the table, and Christine felt her cold extremities start to thaw. Elaborate tapestries covered the walls, and thick carpet was under her feet. A long table made of rich dark wood stood in the center of the room. Two place settings had been arranged – one at the head of the table and the other at its left side.

The gentleman – the head of the household? – gestured at the chair along the side of the table. "Have a seat, mademoiselle."

Feeling like a child being told what to do, she slid obediently onto the chair. The man stood by the door, arms at his sides, staring straight ahead as though waiting at attention. For a while, Christine had only the fire to entertain her, the hearth itself almost as tall as she was. The two place settings were intricately laid upon the long table, the china obviously expensive. This was not what Christine had in mind when Raoul had invited her out to dinner. Would it be only the two of them dining together tonight?

Finally, the gentleman stepped to open the door, and Raoul came through, all smiles at the sight of her. He himself was also dressed for dinner in a cream-colored waistcoat and tie, his blonde hair carefully combed.

"Lotte!" he said, flashing white teeth. "What a sight you make." He nodded at the gentleman and moved in closer to speak with him. "Thank you, Louis. I am expecting a report from Leclair or Plamondon by midnight tonight. Let me know when either arrive, will you? That will be all until then."

Christine could feel her face drain of color at the mention of those names. When she had met Leclair in the stairwell, the man had indicated that he knew Raoul, at least in some regard. But if those terrible men were working under Raoul's watch, then he was partially responsible for their actions. She chewed the inside of her cheek, worried about how to bring up Erik without giving away the secret of their rendezvous.

Raoul swept over to the table. To her surprise, he took up one of her hands and bent over it, pressing his lips to gloved knuckles. "I apologize for the weirdness of tonight, Little Lotte. Business has gotten in the way, but I thought dinner here together was better than having to cancel."

She managed a small smile of her own. Her discomfort at being here in his house unescorted eased a little. Of course, he had not meant anything by this beyond simply dinner.

"Your home is amazing," she said.

"Is it?"

Raoul took the seat adjacent to hers, his back to the fire. With a snap of his fingers, a finely-dressed footman appeared with a bottle of deep red wine. He poured a glass for both Christine and Raoul, then just as quickly hurried away.

Raoul sighed, picking up his wine glass. "I suppose you could call this place amazing, but really, it is an empty shell of what it could be. My parents spend more time abroad than they do here nowadays. My sisters live away with their husbands, and Philip dines at a different restaurant every night. Your visit here this evening is exactly what this place needed." He raised his glass. "To sharing company."

Christine picked up her own glass. "To company," she echoed. She took a sip, not used to drinking such a beverage. The wine hit her tongue with a dry sharpness, and she had to withhold a wince. After setting down her glass, she tugged off her gloves and laid them aside.

Raoul drank half of his wine before pausing, sweeping his eyes up and down her. "I thought that color would look lovely on you, and I was right. You are practically glowing."

Shyly, Christine picked up her glass again to hide behind it. "Thank you for the gown. You don't have to buy me such gifts."

He waved a hand. "Of course I do. You deserve such finery, and I get to see such a vision before me."

Two men walked in, carrying matching dishes of some kind of shellfish. Christine remembered having this when on the coast. She watched Raoul use a tiny fork to pick the meat from the flat oval shell before mimicking his motions. The bite tasted of the sea – salty and delicious and of memories long since passed.

"How have you been, Raoul?"

He ate three more before replying. "Busy, Lotte, busier than I'd like. But the business is doing well, and my efforts are starting to pay off. I would like to see our profits grow even higher, and I am hoping some of my recent ventures to aid in that." He paused, grinning at her. "I'm boring you, aren't I?"

"Not at all," she said, eating another delicate morsel. "Please, tell me more?"

"It's exciting to see what the future might bring. I have to admit, MASE has been falling behind its competitors, and I am under a lot of pressure from my father to make a name for myself in something. I have a lead that I truly believe will make MASE one of the leading suppliers of weapons in France, if not all of Europe."

"I am happy for you, Raoul. Truly."

"And I'm happy you're here." He peered at her from beneath his perfectly groomed eyebrows, his blue eyes sparkling with humor. Raoul had always possessed a boyish charm that had drawn in Christine from the moment she met him. He smiled easily, dressed well, carried himself with confidence.

"So am I," she agreed.

The two of them finished their first course. Christine took another sip of wine while the footman took away their plates and brought steaming bowls of broth that smelled heavenly. As they spooned their soup, Raoul rang a bell to have his wine glass refilled. Christine's was topped off as well, and she knew she would have to pace herself. She was not used to drinking such heavy wine, and she knew more than a glass would leave her feeling woozy.

Fish in a cream sauce followed the soup. She had scarcely dug into the fish when she was also brought a disc of red beef topped in shaved mushrooms. So much food, half of which she could not even eat. Raoul spoke of his father's current enterprises, and that of his two brothers-in-law, subjects Christine knew little about. She tried to focus on taking only small sips of her wine and relaxing enough to enjoy the rich food.

"Is your father still enjoying his job?" Raoul asked, slicing into his beef, which was cooked perfectly.

Christine put down her fork. She did not want to lie, but she also did not want to paint her father as ungrateful for what Raoul had done for them. "We are thrilled to be here, truly," she said carefully. "The apartment – it is so much more than we have had in a long time."

He gazed at her. "There seems to be something the matter."

Oh, how uncomfortable this subject was! She stared down at her plate where the wine sauce had separated from the juice of the meat. "Papa has not been paid much yet."

Raoul breathed out a sigh. "Is that all? I shall have Louis give you something to tide you over. What did I say about needing to straighten the company out? I still have a long way to go, that much is obvious!"

"Thank you so much," she said, meaning her words.

He took another bite of steak, chewing thoughtfully. "I had to pull strings to get Charles that position. I would hate for him to have quickly – an embarrassment for us both. Speaking of your father… has he mentioned a Monsieur Martel, by any chance?"

She shook her head. "I don't know the name."

"It is no pressing matter," he said, waving a hand before he picked up his wine glass to gulp. "He is actually the current presiding head of MASE." Raoul gave a sharp laugh. "I'm told he does not like me very much! But the feeling is mutual, really. The man keeps too many secrets, and if I am to bring this company to the forefront of the industry, I cannot have information withheld from me."

"That… makes sense."

"My informants tell me Monsieur Martel has a key, a key that opens the case that contains all of his current plans for MASE. I don't suppose Charles has shown it to you?"

A key? Raoul mentioned such an artifact so casually, but Christine did not miss the way he watched for her reaction. She had no idea why Raoul would believe Papa had such a key in _his_ possession, much less that he would have told Christine about it.

She shifted in her seat. "I have never heard of Monsieur Martel's key. Papa does not tell me much about his work, Raoul, surely. If he had, I would tell you."

"I believe you, Lotte," Raoul said, returning to his plate. "If he does, you will let me know?"

"Promise."

It was an easy word to say, but Christine was troubled. She wanted to ask Raoul so many questions about this conversation; she wanted to tell him about Leclair, who she suspected was his informant. This night had not gone the way she expected at all, and suddenly she wanted to simply change the subject rather than delve deeper into it.

Luckily, Raoul changed the subject for her. "How is your steak?"

"Very good," she said with relief.

He frowned down at his. "The sauce has separated. Perhaps it is time for a new cook. Our neighbors to the west just got a fantastic one from Italy. Maybe I can lure him away with an increase in salary!"

Plates of sautéed vegetables and fresh greens ended the courses. Christine was unused to eating so much food, but glancing at the grand clock on the far end of the room, she realized that over two hours had passed since she had arrived. She had heard of such long French meals before, but she had never eaten one herself.

"Did you enjoy the food?" Raoul asked, placing his napkin on the table to indicate they were done. Two footmen came in to clear their plates.

"It was all so delicious," she said, patting her full belly. "I can't believe I ate all of that!"

He chuckled. "I hope you saved a little room for dessert."

She wanted to protest, but he rose and came over to her chair, helping her to stand as well. Raoul took up both of their refilled wine glasses and inclined his head toward the other end of the room. Obediently, she followed him past the long dining table and through another door.

They entered a cozy sitting room where a high-backed loveseat faced a second fireplace. The lights were turned down low, a few candles highlighting a tray of petit fours and miniature lemon tarts. A vase of red roses decorated the table in front of the sofa.

"After you," he said, gesturing with a glass of wine at the lounge.

Christine's belly knotted, but with what, she was not sure. The scene was clearly a romantic one, a step Raoul had never yet indicated toward her. Isn't this what she had wanted? A move toward something more than friendship?

Taking a deep breath of courage, Christine crossed to the loveseat and sat, smoothing her mustard-colored skirts. She tried and failed not to fidget with the gloves on her lap, grateful at least that the glass Raoul handed her gave her something to hold. She focused on the smooth glass step between her fingers and not on the way the couch settled when Raoul sat close beside her.

He set down his own glass and removed one of the roses from the vase, drying the end of it. "Roses have always reminded me of you, Little Lotte," he said, touching the flower to his nose and inhaling. "Sweetness combined with softness."

"T-That is kind of you to say, Raoul." When he bent the flower toward her, she obligingly sniffed its heady scent.

He handed the rose to her, then took up one of the petit four cakes, grasping it with thumb and forefinger. To her surprise, he leaned an elbow on the back of the couch near her head and lifted the cake to her lips, a smile playing upon his own mouth.

"A sweet for a sweet?" he asked. He pressed the chocolate-covered petit four against her lips until she opened and took a bite of half while he watched her.

The cake was delicious, unlike anything she had ever tasted before, but she could not focus upon the sugary concoction, her focus instead upon the shift in Raoul's blue eyes. Maybe it was the heavy food or the wine or the strong scent of the flowers, but she was not certain she liked the way he stared at her now.

She chewed and quickly swallowed while he ate the other half. "Raoul-"

"Have you given thought to the matter of the opera? I went to see the opening of _Carmen_ at the Palais Garnier a few days ago." He picked up another petit four, this one a dark berry color with some kind of jam between its layers. "All I could think was how lovely you would look on that stage, in the midst of those ballet girls."

Her eyes widened, but she opened her mouth to take a bite of the second cake. The jam squished out the side, and she could feel its wetness in the corner of her mouth. Before she could find a napkin, Raoul had popped the rest of the cake in his own mouth and swiped a thumb over her bottom lip.

She gasped at the sensation, and he dipped the edge of his jam-sweetened thumb between her lips. A groan rose up within him, and suddenly, he was too close, leaning in, his other hand cupping the back of her neck. He removed his thumb and dipped his head down and his mouth was upon hers, his lips full and warm and sugary.

Christine had never been kissed before. She had witnessed her parents embrace many times, but she had never performed the act herself. Raoul's fingers dug into the base of her skull, his other hand skirting down her jaw to her neck and across her mostly bare shoulders. She knew married couples kissed, knew engaged couples kissed, and while she had contemplated kissing Raoul more than once, her mind set of a warning at her current situation.

To her relief, he pulled back with a soft pop of their lips separating, his lips spreading to a smile. "Lotte, you do taste as sweet as I imagined."

Her face heated. "R-Raoul, I-." She took a steadying breath, let it out slowly. "What you said about the opera-"

"Ah, yes." He took up his own wine glass, gulping down a large amount. She sipped hers, trying to calm her nerves. "Like I asked, have you given it much thought?"

"A-About joining?" She stared at him, confused. Had he not just kissed her? Did he want his wife to be up there on the stage? She knew so little about the mannerisms of the upper class, but she did know that those in the opera were considered separate from the elite. "I have always loved singing and performing – you know that. But Papa-"

He cut her off again. "You let me deal with your father, hmm?"

"You don't know him the way I do," she pressed.

"I can be very convincing when I know what I want." He leaned in again, barely managing to slide his glass back onto the table before capturing her mouth with his once more.

Christine could taste the wine upon his lips, and she started at the dampness of his tongue as it invaded her mouth. She wished he had _asked_ to kiss her. Her brow furrowed as he leaned in further, pressing her sideways against the loveseat. She felt one of his hands at her shoulder, tugging the strap of her bodice down to her upper arm, and then his hand smoothed down the sensitive skin there.

Instead of focusing on the feel of his warm hand, his callous-free palm, her mind fled at once to the pressure of another man's hands on her shoulders. Erik had touched her here just yesterday, guiding her into an appropriate stance to best let loose her song. She knew he had meant little beyond the gesture, and yet the weight of his hands had felt momentous in their existence.

Christine turned her head to the side, breaking the kiss with Raoul. She pressed the heel of her hands against his chest. Her head swam with too much wine.

"Raoul, I-"

"Little Lotte," he said, his breath hot upon her neck as he shifted. She felt his mouth carve down her neck, following the path his hand had taken. "I've never met anyone like you," he said between trailing kisses. "You are so beautiful, so soft, and you taste so good." She felt the heaviness of his hands at her waist, and one of them landed upon her hip. "If you worked at the opera house, I could visit you whenever we wanted. We wouldn't have to sneak around like this anymore."

Sneak around? His words swirled in her head, and she started to feel sick.

"Raoul, s-stop." She moved to push him off, and he tried to dip in for another kiss before she managed to break away, lurching to her feet to fully escape, tugging her strap back onto her quaking shoulder. She rubbed at her face, attempting to scrub away the blossoming tears. "I should be going."

He leaned back against the sofa, gazing up at her solemnly. "I apologize if I frightened you, Lotte. I just could not wait any longer to have a sample. You understand, right?"

"R-Right." She understood nothing, nothing.

"Sometimes I forget how innocent you are."

His comments did not ease her frantic heart. "It is late, and the wine is going to my head."

"Of course. Louis?" he called, and the older gentleman immediately stepped into the room as if he had been hovering there this entire time. "Mademoiselle Daaé needs a lift home and a small purse for her troubles."

"Yes, monsieur."

As the man headed out to arrange for a carriage, Raoul stood, straightening his waistcoat and tugging at his shirtsleeves to smooth out his clothing. "Madame Giry tells me she would be ready to entertain a position for you as early as next week. In the very least, you could take a look around and consider it, hmm? For me? I would be happy to send more coin your way or even a necklace or hairpin this time. You would like that, wouldn't you?"

Still shaky and merely wanting to get away, Christine only nodded. She did her best not to flinch when Raoul bent to kiss her on the cheek.

"Goodnight, my lovely Christine."

She had to strain her voice to return the farewell. "Goodnight, Raoul."

The butler appeared once more and ushered Christine away. She fought not to simply bolt for the door, letting him lead her back through the servant corridors. A maid handed her cloak over, the butler shoved a jingling bag of coin in her hands, and Christine stepped into the night.

As she climbed into the stagecoach, she saw another carriage pull up behind hers. The two men who had visited Erik a week ago climbed out one after the other. She quickly ducked to the side of her carriage's window before they could see her. Through the slit in the curtain, she watched them enter Raoul's home through the door she had just exited.

Pressing herself against the seat, she clenched her eyes tightly closed as the horse pulled her back onto the streets of Paris. What a fool she had been, what a coward. In the end, she had accomplished nothing tonight except her own debasement.

She had to hold herself together until she was alone in her room; she could not stomach to fall apart here.

The hour was late; the streets deserted. The driver pulled up to the sidewalk in front of 62 rue de Richelieu. She had not been afforded a footman this time; this time, she had to open the door herself and step down from the carriage. She took less care with the hem of her gown, her expensive clothes a mockery of her current life.

As soon as she had removed herself from the last step, the carriage pulled away, leaving her alone on the sidewalk. She had a fierce urge to toss the bag of coins into the gutter along the street, but they needed the money too much for her to throw it away. Suddenly exhausted, Christine wrapped herself in her cloak and made her way inside the building.

With no one to guide her, she had little light to illuminate her path. From her nighttime strolls, however, she almost knew the way by heart to the inner courtyard with her stone bench and quiet haven. Leclair and Plamondon were currently at Raoul's home, so she knew it was safe to come here.

Her stomach churned in agony, and she gave a soft hiccupping sob as she sank to her knees beside Erik's window, not carrying that the nighttime dew stained her skirt. His curtains were draw tightly shut. She fanned a gloved hand against the glass.

"I am here," she called. "Did they…?" She could not say the words because she knew, _she knew_ , what had likely transpired here tonight.

She sat against the stone wall beside the window, leaning her head back to gaze upward at the black sky. Shame flooded her, and she shoved it aside. She was no more responsible for what had happened to her tonight than Erik was for what had happened to him, but in the end, she had done nothing to help ease either situation.

After a while, she had calmed her thoughts enough to recall an aria she had heard some time after her mother's death. She let loose the Italian words, her voice at first strained and timid, clenched tightly by her despair.

 _"I lived for art, I lived for love,_

 _I never harmed a living soul._

 _With a discreet hand_

 _I relieved all misfortunes I encountered."_

Pausing, she gathered her strength, continuing to push the music from her body as though excavating all of the heartache she carried with her.

 _"Always with sincere faith_

 _my prayer_

 _rose to the holy tabernacles._

 _Always with sincere faith_

 _I decorated the altars with flowers."_

Her voice grew stronger, lifting into the night sky like a tendril of her very self. She could do nothing, _nothing_ , for Erik but offer her voice to him, something utterly worthless in value. Nonetheless, she offered it.

 _"I donated jewels to the Madonna's mantle,_

 _and offered songs to the stars and to heaven,_

 _which thus did shine with more beauty._

 _In this hour of grief,_

 _why, why, Lord,_

 _ah, why do you reward me thus?"_

The words faded into the night, and at last, Christine let her tears fall. She pulled her knees to her chest, buried her face into her skirts, and sobbed. She cried for Raoul, who was not the man she had believed him to be. She cried for herself and for her Papa. She cried for Erik.

When her cries had faded to only the thin ribbons of tears cutting down her cheeks, she swiped at her face with her handkerchief and stood. Her body ached, her head pounded, and she wanted nothing more than a warm bath. She considered telling Erik that she would return tomorrow, but by now, these promises seemed obvious even when left unsaid. She was drawn to him, for better or worse, and she would not abandon him now.

Christine began to trudge away from her corner of the courtyard when she heard the dry, pained rasp in her ear:

"Thank you."

Her lips curled ever so slightly upward. "Good night, Erik."

Christine made her way up the five flights of stairs, her route bathed in moonlight only by the windows at each landing. Her father had not locked their front door, and she entered quietly in case he was asleep.

He was not. Charles sat in front of a dying fire in the sitting area. He leapt to his feet when she entered, dark circles under his tired eyes. Guilt sprang within her again for being responsible for his staying up late when he had to work the next morning.

"Papa." Her voice broke upon the word.

Charles's warm brown eyes flittered over her, taking in her rumpled appearance and tear-stained visage. "Daughter-mine," he said softly, "what has happened?"

She scrubbed an arm over her face, not wanting to fall apart again. "I- I do not believe I will be marrying Raoul after all."

She expected disappointment from him, but all he did was open his arms. With a gasp, she threw herself against him, tears once more pouring from her eyes. He stroked her hair until she had calmed, then backed her up enough to cup her face with his broad palms.

"We are getting out of here, Christine," he said roughly. "You understand? I just need to work through the details with Monsieur Martel first."

Martel. That was the name of the man Raoul had questioned her about, the one with some key that Raoul wanted. Christine yearned to tell her father about what had happened last night, but she was too exhausted, too heartsick to delve into the details just yet. And she could not tell Papa about Raoul's advances; with his temper, he might do something utterly foolish.

Charles hugged her again, the contact bringing so many memories rushing to the surface. "Monsieur Martel has promised by the end of next week, and I know there have been so many broken promises, but this one – this one will carry us away from Paris. St-Etienne is a good town, and Martel is a good man. There, I will be able to run his household without worry about the comings and goings of dishonorable men. Martel has a daughter only a few years younger than you, so you will even have someone to talk to."

Her throat tight, she could only nod. In truth, she _wanted_ to flee Paris, but there was no way she could do so without first telling her father about Erik. She would have to find the right moment, when they were on the cusp of leaving themselves, when they could go to the authorities without fear.

Soon, they could all be free.

* * *

 **This chapter was tough to write, for multiple reasons. Please give me a comment? Keep your trust in me - I know where we are headed!  
**


	7. Freedom

**Sorry about the longer wait - but at least this chapter is longer! I have always known what would happen in this chapter. I hope you understand why too.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter Seven: Freedom**

It was Saturday morning.

Papa spoke through the bedroom door, wishing her a good day as he headed off to work as usual. Christine waited until his footsteps faded down the hallway before pulling herself out of bed. Her face felt swollen, her eyes puffy from crying so much yesterday. She patted her face with a cold, wet towel, trying to ease away her feelings before they bubbled up again.

She had a plan for today, and she needed all of her resolve to accomplish it. She had to harden her heart to the future she thought she had seen for herself. What she needed most right now was to aid her father with his decision to move them out of Paris.

Changing into a set of her older clothes, she tucked Raoul's coin purse into one of her own bags and bundled all of the gowns and accessories he had bought her into the large box in which her dinner dress had arrived. It took some maneuvering – and a little help from a random MASE employee – to carry the heavy parcel down the five flights of stairs, but she managed to get it close enough to an outside door to wave down a cab.

Soon, the items were loaded onto a carriage, and she spent some of Raoul's coin to be taken to a women's clothing shop – a different one than where Raoul had taken her. Jutting out her chin, she argued a price with the dressmaker and exchanged the dresses for some more practical clothes of her own. The gowns had indeed been expensive, and she had enough money left over to purchase a new suit for her father at a men's shop just a few blocks down.

She paused at a market and bought food for a decent dinner as well. Head held high, her feet lighter than that morning, she returned and spent some rounds dragging all of the bags up to the apartment. If anyone who knew Raoul saw her, they did not comment, and she ignored any employees she passed in the halls.

Offloading Raoul's gifts had made it easier for her to breathe. She made dinner, humming to herself as she went.

Charles, when he returned home, noticed her change in mood. He made little comment about the new clothes, though he did try on his new suit to see that it fit as well as his old ones, from which she had taken measurements.

They spent the evening together, and Christine listened intently to Papa's stories about St-Etienne. MASE manufactured its weapons there, and Monsieur Martel had often considered closing MASE's office here in Paris to transfer the entire company to St-Etienne. Charles thought she would enjoy the fresher air and more moderate climate there, and it was not too far from the ocean for them to take a train on holidays.

As she washed their dishes, she thought about Raoul's questioning the previous day. She glanced over her shoulder at Charles, who was flipping through a newspaper, reading by the light of the fireplace.

"Papa… Raoul asked if you had ever mentioned Monsieur Martel to me before."

He looked up. "An odd question. Most employees here have, considering he runs the company."

"It seems like Raoul does not get along well with Monsieur Martel." Christine frowned at the memories. She dried her hands and started to put away the dishes. "He also asked if I had ever seen you with a key."

Charles's brow furrowed, and he stared into the crackling fire for a moment. "I liked the Vicomte – I truly did. But his treatment of you, daughter-mine, has not been honorable. It is best that you two have parted ways." He turned back to his paper, shifting through the pages and obviously not reading any content. "Leave the rest of the cleaning up to me and go on to bed."

Christine was a bit stunned by how her father had quickly avoided the subject of the key. As she walked into her bedroom, she saw him sitting by the hearth, one of his hands rubbing at a spot high upon his chest.

Dutifully, she closed the door. Unlacing her shoes, she kicked them off and laid down upon her bed, not bothering with undressing.

She would most certainly visit Erik tonight.

Like before, she waited until her father's bustling noises faded into footsteps as he entered his own room and closed the door behind him. She knew he would not take long to fall asleep, his long work days quickly dragging him under.

When the hour had grown late enough, she slipped into her shoes, tied her cloak under her chin, and stepped lightly out of the apartment. The lantern lit her way, the shadows of the stairway now growing as familiar to her as the sounds of nighttime in the courtyard. Her breath emerged as white wisps, the air colder.

Reaching Erik's window, she tapped her knuckles upon the glass.

The black curtains faded into a dark gray, lit from behind by a lantern that suddenly blazed to life.

"It is open," Erik's voice said in her ear.

She pushed harder upon the window pane and found half of it easily gave way, opening inward. She was becoming more and more accustomed to these movements – the squeezing of her many layers through the small window, the crouching upon the table until she could slide to the basement floor. Erik had never offered his assistance, but she found she preferred he did not, instead trusting her own capabilities in climbing up and down.

She reached and tugged the window closed behind her, then turned to face the room.

Erik sat on the edge of his bed, long-fingered hands clasped in his lap. His metal chains snaked along either side of him. His golden eyes gleamed within his full black mask. His black suit was not as pressed as it had been days ago, showing the lack of care he was able to take in his appearance.

"How…" She hesitated, wishing not for the first time that she could read his expression. "How are you?"

"As well as can be expected," he replied. "Forgive me for not rising. My guards were more enthusiastic than is typical."

She had known they had visited him last night, of course she had. But for him to say it plainly aloud – she winced, stepping closer. "I am so sorry, Erik."

"Why are you apologizing? You did nothing wrong."

"Even so. Is there anything I can do to ease your injuries? I have a medical kit upstairs. I-I could help." She so desperately wanted to help in some way. Lately, she had simply felt useless.

His head tilted to the side, his yellow eyes focused upon her. "Sweet songbird… They are careful to leave no lasting damage. I am worth much more alive than dead from an infected wound or internal injury."

She swallowed thickly at his frankness and knew not what to say to that. Her fingers toyed with a fold of her cloak as she stood awkwardly in the long pause that followed.

Then Erik unfolded his hands and placed each on his thighs, straightening to regard her with more earnestness. "You were crying last night."

"Yes." She lowered her hood and tossed her hair off her shoulders. Her jaw flexed, her chin slightly raised. "I was upset."

"Indeed, you were." His golden eyes flicked away for a moment before alighting on her once again. "And yet even then, you thought of me. I am unused to such… kindness." He stretched out one of his hands, palm upward.

Christine stared at that long-fingered hand, poised as though to shake her own. In some way, he seemed to be asking for much more than her own hand in return. Steeling herself, she placed her hand into his, starting a bit when he curled his fingers around hers to grip it. His touch was cold, his skin rough with callouses and dry patches.

He flexed, bringing his hand forward his body, and she had to take a step toward him to keep from pulling her hand free. To her amazement, he raised her hand upward and pressed the bottom curve of his mask to her knuckles. The material was a rough linen and surprisingly warm. Although she could not feel his breath, she imagined what it might be like – as warm as the mask?

Her lips parted in an unwitting gasp. He had just kissed her hand, pressing his mask to her knuckles as surely as he might have pressed his lips. In that moment, she wondered what he appeared like under the mask, if he would allow her to remove the black covering to get at the face beneath. Surely, he _had_ a face of his own, of some kind, a face with features such as lips with which he could kiss her hand properly… What were they shaped like? Would they feel as rough as his palm did against hers?

As soon as he loosened his grip, she jerked her hand away with more insistence than she meant. He only straightened and gazed up at her, golden eyes sleek and deadly in the dim light. "You did a dangerous thing, coming here last night. What if my visitors had not yet left and caught you?"

She roused herself, trying to follow his new line of questioning and shake the _other_ thoughts from her head. How much should she tell him? But she was through protecting Raoul, through with keeping up any pretenses.

"I saw both of those men somewhere else," she admitted, "when I was on my way back here. I knew they had gone."

The dark gray skin around his eyes tightened, narrowing his stare. "Where?"

"Erik." She shifted on her feet, trying to hide her discomfort and likely failing. "They were entering the home of a friend of mine. He was waiting for them to return." Erik's attention was intense, and she glanced away to the floor. "He is not who I thought he was, but I suppose I should be used to disappointment by now. Papa wants to move us away from here."

The last bit she added to see what kind of reaction she might glean from the man before her. They had known each other for such a short time, and she should not come to expect anything from him, this faceless person in chains. And yet, she found herself yearning for some sort of response from him – what, she could not yet say.

Erik only nodded. "This is advisable."

She blinked. "What is?"

"Moving away, little bird."

"You advise me to move away?" Feeling her face grow hot, she moved toward the fire in the other corner of the room, turning away from Erik. The shift was more to hide the burn of tears in her eyes. How easily she fell apart nowadays; her mother would have wanted her to be stronger than this.

She heard the heavy give and take of his chains, and then felt his momentous presence behind her.

"Yes," he answered, voice quiet. "This place is too toxic for one such as yourself, this building full of shadows and secrets. How much longer do you expect to visit me in the dead of night, little bird, without consequence?"

She spun around to argue with him, but what she saw in his eyes throttled her hasty retort. As she watched wide-eyed, he brought up a hand to spin one of her brown curls around a finger, the heavy manacle dangling from his pale wrist.

"Does your Papa say where you will go?" he asked.

It took her a moment to respond, riveted as she was on the feeling of her lock of hair tugging gently along her scalp. "Y-Yes," she said, struggling to keep her breathing even. "St-Etienne. He intends to work for Monsieur Martel."

The spell broken, Erik dropped his hand back to his side. "Martel is the master of this business. I have heard he is a good enough man, honorable enough for the position he keeps. I have never met him, but Plamondon detests him, so he must keep better company."

Raoul's words floated through her memory. The worry she had felt earlier began to resurface. "Erik, have you ever heard of a key?"

"Key?"

"Some important key. My friend asked me if I had ever seen or heard about a key that Martel had. It seemed like something he wanted to know more about or locate if he could. Truthfully, I do not know the importance of such an item, but he seemed to care about it."

Erik folded his arms, turning away slightly as he considered her question. "Would you tell me the name of this _friend_ of yours? These questions he is asking, and the men who you say ventured to his residence last night – these details tell me that you should keep far away from him."

She remembered the way Leclair had reacted when she had mentioned Raoul's name. She gathered her courage. "He is the Vicomte de Chagny."

" _Vicomte_?"

She started at the sudden vehemence that darkened Erik's tone, the near way he hissed the word. When he hands came up to clutch her shoulders roughly, she could do little more than stare up at him in shock.

"E-Erik?"

He tightened his grip almost to the point of pain, fingers like bands of metal cutting into her upper arms. "The Vicomte is young and blonde, yes? The same man who recently became chief of this faction of MASE?"

She nodded, and he released her, shoving her in the direction of the window with such force that she almost fell backward.

"You must go, Christine. Wake your father, pack up your belongings, and _go_."

"Erik-"

"I said _go_!"

His command snarled at her, causing her to stumble further toward the only way out of his room. His sudden shift in temperament startled her and sent her heart racing. Just when she thought she could grow used to this towering shape of a man, he changed his demeanor. He all but dashed to the window, throwing open the pane and spinning back around to scowl at her. He was… panicked, in a way she had not seen from him.

"Best you leave your things – no time to pack that which can be replaced. Fetch your father and leave this place, Christine. Both of you, hail a cab and take yourselves far beyond the reach of Paris!"

The table pressed against the backs of her thighs. Still, she hesitated. His next words were thick, low and draw from the base of his throat, an almost animalistic whine.

"Why are you not leaving? You told me you would listen."

 _"If I ever bid you to leave again, it will be because your life is truly in danger. Will you listen then?"_

She did not speak, did not nod her agreement. She wanted nothing more than to go to him, to wrap her arms around his slender waist the way she had before, to feel those cold hands touch her hair. Instead, she turned to face the window and climbed onto the table. She could hear harsh breathing that was not her own. No rough sounds of chains met her ears as though he was rooted to his spot in the room.

Christine climbed back into the courtyard, her breath immediately coming out in quick white tendrils. She did not look back, _could not look back_ , lest she break her word and return to him.

On her way back upstairs, she did not let herself think much about what was happening. Her legs felt jittery, her pulse fluttering wildly beneath her skin. She focused upon placing one foot before the other until she reached the apartment door.

She did not bother removing her cloak once inside. Her mouth opened to call for her father, to wake him, but she snapped it shut.

Charles, fully dressed, rose from the chair before the fire.

"Papa!"

"I heard noises outside my window and woke to find you gone. No note to say where you were, Christine. No sign that you were safe."

"I-I am sorry, Papa."

His face darkened in anger, his voice trembling in fury. "What am I to think about my daughter disappearing in the middle of the night?"

"I _am_ sorry." She stepped toward him, Erik's words of warning echoing in her head. She needed to convince Charles that they had no choice but to flee at once. "I only went to the courtyard on the lower floor, the one in the middle of the building. I-I have been going there to sing."

He shook his head incredulously. "Not only have you been sneaking out from beneath my roof every night, but you have been acting against my wishes?"

"Papa, I only wanted to practice."

Grabbing onto his arm, she tried to pull him toward the door. He shook her off. "I have tried to sympathize with all that has happened, Christine, tried to understand your moods and lingering sentiments about the past. But enough time has passed that you stop these childish ventures."

His words cut her deeply. She swallowed her rising tears. "I understand that you are disappointed, Papa. Can – can we talk about this on our way? We need to leave tonight." She took up his arm again. "Please, I think we are in danger. We need to leave!"

He stumbled as she tugged him. "What is going on with you, Christine? I already told you that we are leaving as soon as I work things out with Monsieur Martel."

"No, it must be tonight. _Please_ , Papa!" She could hear her own panic coloring her voice, which was rising shrilly.

She could see Charles's thoughts warring with his own frustration with her. His blue eyes flitted away for a moment as he considered. "How do you know this?"

"I just do." When she yanked him toward the door, he followed more obediently. "I will explain everything – I promise." And she would. She would tell him what she had been doing in the courtyard, tell him about her suspicions about Raoul, tell him about Erik. And eventually, once they were far away and safe, she could tell the police and send them to free her friend.

Charles took his coat from the rack by the door and began to shrug it on. "Let me grab the rest of our coin from my room, and we will leave." Christine nodded, relieved. He opened their front door for her. "Head downstairs and flag down a ride if you can find one. If not, we will go on foot at first."

"Yes, Papa."

Christine was about to step into the hall when Charles snagged the back of her cloak and yanked her back into the apartment, slamming the door closed once again. She did not have to ask why – she had seen them at the same time he had.

Plamondon had appeared around the corner of the hall, at least two other men with him. They all carried pistols in their hands.

Charles bolted the locks, then grabbed onto a kitchen chair and jammed the back under the handle of the door, while Christine stared in shock. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled them both into his room, closing that door as well. It did not have a lock. He fetched a small purse of coin and shoved it into the waistband of her bodice without comment.

"Papa-"

"Christine, listen to me." He bent, taking hold of her shoulders in the same manner that Erik had done only moments earlier. "My bedroom window opens next to the roof. You can swing yourself over, all right? Cross the roof and find the hatch that opens on the other side. This leads to another set of stairs."

She began to tremble. "Papa, why are you telling me this?"

"Take these stairs all the way to the bottom floor, Christine. They lead directly to the city street, all right? From there, you can head to the gendarmerie." He cupped her face, his own expression serious. "Do you remember when I showed you where the nearest station is? Good. You can do this. Take the stairs to the outside, then find the gendarmerie."

What sounded like a fist banging upon the front door caught their attention for a moment. Then Charles pushed her toward the window. "Go, daughter-mine!"

She grabbed onto his hand. "Not without you!"

Beneath his thick beard, he offered a small smile. "I will follow as soon as I can."

He tugged loose his tie and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt, giving him access to a chain that hung around his neck. Lifting the chain free of his shirt, he held aloft a small golden key that dangling between them.

"Take this. Keep it safe for me, Christine."

Not waiting for her reply, he looped the chain over her head and lifted her hair to settle it against her throat. Then he tucked the key safely into the collar of her dress, the metal warm from being against his own skin.

In a mimicry of Erik's earlier actions, Charles opened the tall window and ushered Christine onto the narrow balcony, barely wide enough for her tiptoes. The harsh winter wind blew against her cheeks. She could see the street far below, and the roof that jutted off to one side at a gentle slant.

She swung her head around. "Papa!"

He had already moved back to the door, bracing it with his shoulder. More banging erupted from the living room.

"Go, Christine!"

Gulping in pants of air, struggling against her panic, she grabbed onto the railing and swung one leg over the edge. Here on the corner of the balcony, she had little chance of falling – the roof sloped under this portion. She yanked her skirts over the railing and leapt onto the roof, falling to her knees on the cold metal tiles.

 _Wait for me, Papa_ , she thought. She would run to the gendarmerie and beg for their help, no matter how long it took.

Her fingers, grasping onto the rough shape of the shingles, were already turning numb as she crept her way across the roof, the wind tugging on her cloak and batting her hair in her face. Charles had shut the window behind her. She had to focus on moving closer to the hatch on the other side of the roof and not on the danger her father could be facing.

Finally, she made it across, her fingernails broken from grasping onto the tiles, the palms of her hands scraped raw. She pried open the hatch and caught sight of a narrow staircase that twisted down into darkness. The space was enclosed enough that she could place one hand on each wall, and so she felt her way downward, guiding herself by the curve of the walls and feeling each span of each step after the moonlight from outside faded into nothing.

Her hands found the door before her before she bumped her nose upon it. She felt blindly for a handle, found one, and twisted the knob. She stepped onto the sidewalk, but she could not take off running the way she had planned. She heard a man's voice mumbling just around the corner.

Christine pressed her back to the building's stone surface and sided her way to the corner to peer around it. Leclair was bent over, one foot raised onto the step of a carriage as he tied his boot. These men were already in the building, already coming for her father, and she had no time to walk in the dark to the police, who would have to believe her story before they would hurry to help.

Her heart pounding, Christine pried up a loose cobblestone. Leclair cursed, untying his laces with drunken movements. As she crept closer, she could smell the stink of alcohol on him. He must have finally noticed her in his peripheral vision because he swung up to see her just as she brought the heavy stone crashing atop his head.

With a grunt, he slumped to the ground. He was not fully unconscious, slowly writhing as he groaned, so Christine acted quickly. She knelt beside him and rolled him over enough to dig into his coat pockets. It was easy for her to find the lump of keys, and once she had them in her possession, she fled.

She was terrified that she would meet someone else as she went back inside the building, but the first floor was deserted. She had only ever entered Erik's room through the courtyard window, but she knew it was accessed through the basement. The minutes passed in slow agony, each door having to be unlocked with a different key. She found storerooms of firearms and office supplies until she reached a narrow door in the back with a black wooden rod propped beside it.

Feeling sick at the sight, Christine fumbled with the keys, desperately trying to find the correct one. When it clicked into the place and sprung free the lock, she almost sobbed at the sound. She tossed open the door.

Erik leapt to his feet at the sight of her. He had been sitting on the edge of his mattress facing the door, the position he took whenever Leclair and Plamondon came to roughen him up. Bile rose up in Christine's throat at the thought that Erik had mistaken her for them. With a cry, tears streaming down her cheeks, she threw herself against the man.

"Christine, what are you-" The impact of her slight body against his cut him off with a soft exhalation of breath. "I thought you were _leaving_."

"Oh, Erik!" She hid her face against his shirt, allowing herself only a moment to breathe in the damp scent of him before she stepped back. "I tried, but before Papa and I could get out, Plamondon showed up with t-these other men. I saw Leclair outside too."

His eyes widened inside his black mask, the whites showing around his yellow irises. "Did he see you?" At her nod, Erik placed a hand along her back and pushed her back toward the door. "You have to leave. Get as far from here as you can by daylight. If he catches you here-"

"I cannot simply run away. My father is upstairs all alone! I have to do _something_." She held the ring of keys in her palm. "Will one of these unlock your cuffs?"

"No." Erik shook his wrists at her, the chains whipping against the stone floor. "I have tried many times to pick them. After I managed the first set, they had these specially made."

Christine despaired. Both Erik and her father expected her to just run away and save herself while leaving them both in danger. Why was her life considered greater than theirs? She could never face herself again if she left now, she could never live a happy life knowing she had put herself above them.

"Then I will have to go back upstairs on my own," she said.

"No, Christine!"

She deafened her ears to his protests, moving back to the doorway where he could not reach her. Erik lurched toward her, jerking the tall bulk of his body in her direction while his manacles held his hands behind him. His eyes blazed with desperation.

And then gunshots rang out, the sounds muffled. One, two, in quick succession.

Christine screamed, heart seizing in terror. "Papa!" She had left her father all alone in their attic apartment, facing his assailants without her.

"Christine – wait a moment!"

She swung around to see Erik straining against his bonds. He had taken one of the chains within his hands, the length stretched taut, the metal digging into the space where his wrist met his hand. His broad back heaving, he put his weight into it as he tried to yank the chain free from the wall.

Realizing what he was trying to do, Christine joined him, grabbing onto the chain in front of his fists. Her palms were already raw from the metal shingles on the roof, but she ignored the agony, ignored the way the old, rusted metal scraped her skin. The chain was bolted into the stone wall – how could they ever hope to –

A growl rose up deep within Erik. She stared at the exposed line of his throat between mask and shirt collar, watched him swallow against the pain. Blood welled up from where the metal bit into his wrist, and still they pulled. Christine's muscles began to burn, and then suddenly, a link in the chain gave way, tossing them both to the floor.

"Again," Erik said.

They scrambled to their feet, grasping onto the second chain in the same manner as the first. Christine's hands cramped, but still she pulled with all of her strength. Erik's feet slid across the grimy stone floor and he dug in his heels, his body at an angle. Yells rising from both of them, they heaved backward. The chains were worn from overuse, left to weather for far too long, and weakened by Erik's own tinkering. They had found a weakness in the first chain – they could do the same with the second.

Christine's muscles ached, and she could feel the blood pounding in her veins. She thought of her father all alone upstairs, of the gunshots, of the promise of _freedom_ , and she pushed past her anguish to yank with every bit of power she possessed. She heard a grinding sound of metal separating, and the second chain split in two.

Erik was free.

Blood dripped in red splatters onto the floor from both of his damaged wrists. The manacles now hung loosely from his wrists, and two lengths of shorter chain still dangled from each of his hands. He straightened to his full height, his eyes blazing madly from within his dark mask, his chest heaving.

For a moment, fear flashed through her – fear of him, for what did she actually know of this man except the little he had revealed to her? When he stepped forward, she backpedaled, but he only strode to the door. He paused, tilting his head over his shoulder to speak to her.

"Whatever happens, follow close and always stay behind me, never in front. Do you understand?"

"Y-Yes."

As he stepped across the threshold of his prison, she heard his quick exhalation, his breathing out the memory of this place. Her mind flitted back to that night she had demanded to know why he was imprisoned.

 _"I have seen much in my lifetime, Christine. I have done much. But while I am responsible for my own destruction within this stone prison, I will certainly not be responsible for yours."_

He strode forward on long legs, and she had to scurry to keep up. Even though he had existed only within that tiny room while she had known him, he seemed to know exactly where to go.

They flew up the flights of stairs, and on the third floor, they overtook Leclair who had also been on his way up. Leclair was bleeding from a gash along his hairline from where Christine had hit him. His head wound along with his drunken state made him slow to react to the sudden appearance of Erik.

"Who the _fuck_ let you out?"

Not answering, Erik leapt smoothly behind him. He fisted one of the chains still hanging from his wrist and pulled it taut around Leclair's thick neck.

Christine cried out and ducked behind Erik in time to avoid the shot Leclair fired from the pistol in his hand. She now understood what Erik had meant by staying behind him, she understood why he had wanted her to stay close. She understood that and so much more.

 _"There are some answers that you do not want to hear."_

How naïve she had been when she had asked what he had refused to do for those men. She heard Erik murmur into Leclair's ear, his voice void of emotion.

"The day you laid hands upon me was the day you chose how to die."

Leclair tried to squeak out a reply but the chain tightened around his neck, cutting off his air. Erik leaned back, and Leclair rose upon his toes until he was unable to support his own weight. Christine clenched her eyes shut, but she could not hide from the sound of silence coming from Leclair's throat, nor from the sound of chain squealing against chain.

Then she heard the thud of a body falling to the floor.

She knew, _she knew_ , the truth that Erik had refused to give her about himself, about his role in all of this. She knew why he had been chained in that tiny room. She knew why he had not wanted her to know. And yet, she did not regret letting him out of that hell, and she was terrified by the fact that she did not regret that he had now killed a man.

"Keep your eyes closed," Erik said, softer now. His fingers touched hers, gripping, tugging her away. Once they had passed the scene, he let go. "You live in the attic?"

She could only nod, and they hurried onward. Leclair's shot had drawn notice. Erik's arm shot out, knocking Christine against the wall behind him just as someone fired at them. Two men Christine did not recognize cut them off.

"Oh God!" one of the men cried out, seeing Erik's dark form on the stairs, a shadow rising out of the darkness. "Heaven have mercy!"

Christine focused on matching Erik's movements, skirting behind him as he shifted.

"Good girl," he said in her ear, even as he ringed a chain around one man's neck and aimed a confiscated weapon at the other.

Papa, Christine chanted in her head. She had to reach Papa. Nothing else mattered.

They made it to the top of the stairs, everything around them falling silent. Seeing that the door to the apartment had been kicked open, Christine darted around Erik, but he caught her arm.

"Let me go first."

He nudged the door open wider with his foot, and Christine saw a body sprawled across the floor of the entryway. She knew from the boots that it was not her father, and she recognized Plamondon's graying hair as she stepped into what had been her home. Erik bent down to press two fingertips to the man's neck, but Plamondon was staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling, a gaping wound in his chest no longer seeping blood.

"Papa?" she called.

Erik moved further into the room, eyes sweeping around. She had left her father in his bedroom, so she stepped around to head in that direction. Erik's heavy hand upon her shoulder brought her up short, but he was not looking at her, his attention instead directed toward the dark interior of her father's bedroom.

Christine looked up at the man beside her, the man she had freed from his prison, who had just killed three men in front of her. From this angle, he could see into the bedroom while the angle of the door blocked her view. He still held a confiscated pistol in one hand, his wrists caked with drying blood.

"E-Erik, where is Papa?"

His yellow eyes swiveled down to alight on her. "Oh, little bird."

She could not stomach the sorrowful note that colored his voice. When she ducked under his arm, he did not prevent her this time.

Charles lay still upon the floor of his bedroom, just beyond the doorway. Her body felt light as she made her way to his side and sank to her knees. Her trembling fingers touched the splatter of red in his ribcage, and then she was ripping the ruffled hem of her skirt off so she could ball up the fabric and press it against his injury.

"Erik, he is bleeding!" She glanced at him as he cast his shadow into the room, filling up the doorframe. "Go get a doctor! There has to be one nearby, right?" She brushed the hair from Charles's forehead, and his skin was clammy.

"Christine," Erik said.

"Why are you just standing there? Help me!" She clasped her father's hand, squeezing it gently. His broad hand was limp within hers, and she bent forward to kiss his knuckles. "Wake up, Papa, please wake up!"

"Christine."

She was getting tired of Erik just standing there, saying her name. She tried to glare at him but her vision was blurring. Erik crouched at her side.

"There is nothing I can do, little bird. We must leave. Someone will come to investigate the noise, and we must be gone when they do."

She scrubbed at her face, her fingers sticky with blood. "I cannot leave him. I already left him once."

"You must."

Charles lay still before her, and the more she stared at him, the more she saw the truth for what it was. She fisted his clothes, shaking him. "No, no, no, Papa!" Her ears were ringing – who was shouting? She could not seem to do anything but kneel there on the floor. Her throat was beginning to scald like she was gulping boiling water.

Dimly, she felt Erik's cold fingers slide through her hair to cup the base of her neck. His other hand calmly came up to cover her mouth and nose, forming a solid seal between her lungs and the air.

"Forgive me," he said, golden eyes glowing in the hazy light. "This will only take a moment."

She tried to pry his fingers from her face to draw a breath, but she could no more prevent what he was doing than she could bring her father back to life. Her tears flowed freely over his fingers. She felt dizzy, her mind drifting upward as though untethered from her aching body. For a brief moment, she thought this was not such a terrible way to die, surely with less pain than the way her father had passed.

She heard the ringing in her ears fade to nothing, and soon, her vision formed a fuzzy blackness that swallowed her whole.

* * *

 **And thus ends what I consider to be the Part 1 of this fic.  
**


	8. Aftermath

**I hope I treated this chapter with as much sensitivity as it requires.**

* * *

 **Chapter 8: Aftermath**

 _"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing_."

Would those sing-song words ever be erased from her mind? They carried new connotation now – of a nickname soiled with broken promises, of a girl who should have been more aware of the danger and not unwittingly stepped into it.

Christine swam through a muddy haze, her body heavy. Her limbs did not seem to want to move at her command, like they were covered in a black tar from which she could not climb. When she tried to set her feet on the ground, they could not seem to make contact. She was trapped within the long lines of someone else's arms all around her. Her hands flailed, and the back of one made contact with a solid wall of cloth over unyielding flesh.

 _"Her father promised her that he would send her the Angel of Music."_

"Stay calm, little bird."

That soft murmur in her ear helped bring her out of her dream-like fog. Her head spun, her equilibrium tossed asunder, as she was maneuvered into an upright position. She could feel more of what her body felt – the bite of cold concrete at her back, the soreness in her throat, the aching throb of her palms.

She tried to open her eyes and when she encountered only swirling blackness, she panicked for a moment before the glow of a lantern separated itself from the dark.

Erik was crouched at her side, his knees two angular juts nearly as dark as their surroundings. His black mask blended in with the shadows, his eyes two glowing points similar to that of the lantern he had just brought to life.

She shut her eyes against a wave of dizziness. She tried to speak, but her tongue had to scrape out some semblance of moisture from her mouth before she could. "Where… where are we?"

"The tunnels beneath Paris." She heard the rattle of broken chains, too loud in the dark silence that stretched around them, as he settled against the wall beside her. "Unfortunately, our pursuers know my travel methods, so I am in the process of retracing some of my steps to destroy any sort of trail. I also left a few misleading clues near Saint-Lazare. If they take the bait, they will believe you have left the city altogether."

Christine tried to open her eyes again, but there was too little light to find anything on which to focus, and she was not ready to study her companion more than she already had.

"They are looking for us?"

A pause, a slow inhale, and then: "I am a commodity they might wish returned. However, it is your name I have heard them call. The gendarmerie is also on the prowl."

"So… they are looking for _me_?"

"Yes."

Was _Raoul_ looking for her? She had left behind all of her belongings save the purse jutting from her hip. Would he believe she had run away in fright or that she had gone against her will? She feared how much she could even still trust them after their last parting, when she had seen those hateful men enter Raoul's home.

She imagined what the gendarmerie found when they entered the building. Two men dead on the stairway – one with marks on his neck, the other shot dead. What would they see within the attic apartment? Plamondon, splayed at the front door, dead from a gunshot fired in a moment of self-preserving desperation.

She had not even known her father owned a gun.

And then they would find the body of her father, her last relative, still and stretched across the floor of his bedroom. Her father, face now pale and without expression. Her father, whose last words had been ordering her to _go_. She could not even return to bury him without fearing for her life.

Christine flung herself forward on her knees, retching. She could taste the last meal she had shared with Papa now mixed with bile, and she kept on and on until her stomach was empty and spasming around only emptiness.

Erik said nothing, but she heard the ripping of cloth. He pressed a scrap of his shirt into her hand, and she used it to clean herself, her throat burning.

"Come," he said finally. "We need to reach the entrance before daylight."

Entrance?

She did not bother to ask for an explanation, and he did not ask for permission to pick her up in his arms once again. He lifted her like she weighted nothing more than a breeze, and he bent to hook a finger into the handle of the lantern to carry it with them. His arms were strong around her, those long lengths built of sinew and bone, and she laid her cheek against his shoulder.

Soon, the rhythmic swaying in his arms and the dry scrape of his boots on stone lulled her back into unconsciousness, from which she was unsure she had ever emerged.

* * *

She awoke again to the sound of water lapping against wood, the pinging of far away droplets sharp in her ears. She lay uncomfortably in the bottom of a small boat, which swayed as she tried to push herself into a sitting position. Her cloak had been pulled around her like a blanket, but she was still cold, so cold her fingers and nose were numb.

"Easy," Erik said above her.

He was standing at the other end of the dingy, his shirtsleeves gleaming white in the darkness and the lantern's glow at the bow. More carefully this time, she rose up on an elbow, realizing his coat had been folded under her head.

First a tunnel, and now a boat moving across water – all in darkness. Christine could not gather up the energy to even bother with asking what all had happened while she passed in and out of consciousness. Erik moved them across the inky, still surface of a lake with the confidence of someone who knew where he was going until the boat bumped against a shoreline.

After he tied off the boat, he bent and offered her a hand. She took it, wincing a bit at the stretch of the torn skin of her palm. He helped her step out of the boat and continued to fold fast to her hand, the chain dangling from his wrist bumping against her skirt as they began to walk. Although he held aloft the lantern, he did not seem to need it, his footfalls certain.

After only a few meters, the lantern cast its illumination over a small windowless cottage rising out of the gloom. The Christine from a few weeks ago might have found this strange, but she was beginning to question her circumstances less than perhaps she might.

The front door was unlocked, and Erik stepped inside as though he knew it would be empty. He left her standing on the stoop and began to busy himself around the place, not bothering to take the lantern with him. Christine expected to smell dampness and dust, but her surroundings were clean and clutter-free.

Exhaustion threatened to make her knees buckle. She did not bother trying to study this new setting, instead focusing on keeping herself upright until Erik returned. Presently, he did, carrying a bundle of clothing across one of his arms.

"This way," he said, hooking spindly fingers into the handle of the lantern.

She followed him into an adjacent room – a small bedroom with an adjoining bathroom. Dully, she watched as he set the lantern on a dresser and the clothing upon the foot of the bed. He stared at her, expression unreadable, and gestured at the pile of clothes.

"You will want to change and then eat something."

"I am not hungry," she said, her voice sounding far away.

He was silent a moment. "Change your clothes, little bird." Stepping out of the room, he shut the door behind him.

Christine blearily swept her eyes over the pile of clothing. Why was Erik so insistent… her eyes traveled to her dress. And to the stains there. Across the fabric were dark brown splotches staining the pattern of her skirt. Grasping her skirt to examine the blots, she saw the same brown upon her hands, but upon her skin it was more obvious what it was – dried blood.

Papa's blood.

Bile rose up in her throat, and tears stung her eyes. She bolted to the bathroom and spun open the tap, shoving her hands under the hot water that poured out of the faucet. She scrubbed and scrubbed, the brown turning to more of a deep red under the water, and she found a bar of soap and scrubbed some more until the water ran pink down the drain.

A sob tore through her. That was when she noticed the oval mirror above the sink and her reflection within her. Her pinned hair had come half undone, and she tore the rest free of her hanging pins. She had somehow left a smudge of dark red upon her cheekbone, which she scratched away, not caring if she scratched her face. Her blue eyes stared back at her, red-rimmed, unfocused and wild, the eyes of someone not prepared to face their new reality. And how could she? How could she when her father was all she had ever known?

Christine untied her cloak and let it fall to the floor. She began to unbutton her bodice, ripping the buttons when she could not get them undone quick enough. She tossed her cage bustle into a corner of the bedroom and stepped out of her skirts, balling up her dress and hiding the bloodstains.

Erik had given her a set of men's clothing to change into, but the items were clearly too large. She did put on the white shirt, trying to ignore to whom it belonged, and buttoned it all the way to her neck. There, her fingertips grazed a thin chain, and that was when she remembered the necklace her father had given her.

 _"Take this. Keep it safe for me, Christine."_

She fingered the key, but shoved aside any thoughts concerning it as quickly as she could tuck it under the shirt. The hem of the shirt fell nearly as long as her chemise, and she rolled the sleeves to her wrists. Atop everything else, she slid on a men's dressing robe she had also been left, the rich fabric woven with an intricate design in various shades of burgundy. To hell with propriety because what did it even matter anymore?

She belted it tightly, scrubbed the tears from her face, and left the room.

Erik sat upon a high-backed sofa, a blazing fire highlighting the fact that she was stepping into a living room. At once, she was aware of just how chilled she was, and the warmth of the crackling flames seeped into her as soon as she came around the sofa, slowing her pulse that had started racing.

Yellow eyes glanced at her. "Give me a moment. These double-locking cuffs are cleverly tricky."

One of his cuffs lay open on the floor, the chain coiled like a snake. Erik worked on the second one, contorting the imprisoned hand to prod at the locking mechanism with a thin bit of metal. A small roll of intricate instruments lay across one of his thighs.

She sat next to him and attempted to pretend she was fine. "May I help in any way?"

"I almost have it," he said, twisting the metal rod. "My captor learned quickly. I daresay I may not have been able to get free of these Tower cuffs without my proper tools. Ah, there we go." The ratchet teeth gave way, sliding out of the cuff and freeing his other wrist. He tossed it onto the floor with a thud.

A prisoner now free.

Christine hurt in too many ways, and when her mind tried to sort through the events of this night, she could not process them. She moved her focus to the fire, the curling flames and waves of heat helping to at least calm her. She hardly noticed when Erik rose from the sofa, nor when he returned.

A cool touch upon her knuckles brought her attention back to the man beside her. A black leather bag was open beside them, and a quick glance inside revealed various vials and bandages. Erik's bony hand touched hers, questioning.

"May I see your palms?"

"My palms?" She looked down at her hands, uncurling them to reveal the mess she had made of them. The metal tiles of the roof had left the tips of her fingers and ridges of her palms scraped, and she had only torn open the gouges further by grabbing onto Erik's chains.

With a gentle tentativeness, Erik nudged her hands further open. He seemed almost afraid to handle her; although he had cleaned his own hands at some point, he avoided pressing his fingertips to hers. Turned toward each other as they were, their knees were nearly touching. His suit jacket was still missing, and he had rolled up his shirtsleeves, probably to better access the cuffs at his wrists. Half of his lean forearms were revealed, the skin pale and slightly gray-tinged, tendons flexing as he turned one of his own hands palm up.

At his insistence, she laid her own hand in his, his palm cool and dry to tender skin on the back of her hand. He studied her gashes.

"You should not scar."

He then picked up a bit of gauze dipped in a smelly liquid and pressed the wetness to her palm. The disinfectant stung, but Christine bore it without complaint. She remembered Papa using a similar technique when she was a child, whenever she had fallen and gotten a scrape. If she would cry, he would bend over and blow on the wound, easing the sting. Erik wore a mask that covered his mouth, and while she sometimes could hear his muffled breathing, he obviously would not relieve the burning.

Christine herself could have blown on it, but her throat closed up and she merely sat while Erik cleaned first one hand and then the other. He tied strips of clean linen around the worst of her injuries, and then to her surprise, he held her hands within the large cocoon of his.

"You were hurt on my account."

She shook her head – she did not want to be thanked, not at all – and forced her tongue to work. "Anyone would have done the same."

"Anyone else would have turned and ran." His long fingers spasmed around hers, applying a slight greater pressure but still gentle. "Even while knowing your father was in danger, knowing your own life was in danger, you still stayed and aided me."

"I needed help." She tried to blink away the blurriness covering her vision and only succeeded in causing tears to course down both cheeks. "Believe me, Erik, it was a selfish decision I made."

"How you twist the truth."

More tears continued to fall, but she did not want to pull away to wipe them. "I could have made more effort to get you out sooner. I could have listened to my own suspicions about that place. If I had only-"

Erik cut her off, tone soft. She could not stand the look in his eyes as he gazed at her. "You freed me, little bird, and after you had freed me, despite your fear, you still trusted me." He set her hands back upon her own lap and raised his bare wrists to her eye level. "I shall not forget what you have done for me."

"Your poor wrists." She noticed the deep grooves that the cuffs had cut, a thick circle around each of his wrists. She remembered how he had pulled against his bonds when he thought she was about to leave alone. They were no longer bleeding freely, but she caught one of his hands, pulling the lithe fingers until he had to lean forward to rest his hand upon her knee.

Not asking permission, she dug into his bag and found the antiseptic he had used. She soaked the bits of linen like he had and cleaned his wounds on each of his wrists. As she applied the stinging liquid, she leaned forward to blow upon his skin, wanting to ease the burn. He flinched but did not pull away, and she squeezed the bony fingers in reassurance. Then she began to wrap each wrist.

She had finished with one and moved onto the other when she noticed the trembling in the tips of his fingers, a strange shudder that she might not have seen unless she was looking closely. When she glanced up, she saw the way his eyes followed each of her movements with studious attention, as though committing every detail of her actions to memory. She quickly finished with the second wrist, but she could not bring herself to let go of him just yet, instead enfolding his hands with hers much the same way he had done earlier.

These long, agile hands. He had killed three men with these hands, and not only had she allowed it, she had _condoned_ his behavior as surely as she had committed the murders herself. And yet, despite how hard she had tried to save her father, even at the expense of other men's lives, she had still failed.

Her tears began to flow again. She bent forward and laid her burning cheek against their mingled hands, as much for comfort as it was to hide from his scrutiny. His breath caught in his chest, sucked in a rush through the holes in his mask.

She could no longer hold anything at bay.

She cried for her father, for the fact that he had died alone. She cried for herself and her uncertain present, and her even more uncertain future. She cried for promises broken and fresh slashes within her that might never heal. She cried for the questions she knew she would eventually have to ask and the overwhelming fear she held over the answers.

Between her hands, Erik's own shook, and she clutched them harder as though that could ease their quivering.

"You could not have stopped him from dying," Erik said, voice rough.

She squeezed her eyes tightly together, shifted, and pressed her forehead against their hands, not caring that she had soaked their skin. "I could have been there."

"And died alongside him. Never doubt that those men were capable of such cruelty, Christine. They were there for a specific purpose – of what, I am not yet certain. But if you had placed yourself in their way, they would not have hesitated to remove you as they did your father."

Perhaps his words were meant to be comforting, but she could only succumb to a fresh surge of tears. She wept, her shoulders shaking, hidden among her curtain of hair, not caring that she was coming undone in front of this man. He merely allowed her to continue to cling to his hands, his body motionless as though afraid of disturbing her. What he thought, she could only imagine.

At last, she grew heavy-limbed, her eyes too tired to open. Silently, Erik slipped his hands free of hers. She was somewhat aware of being lifted again into his arms, now without the dull rattle of the chains, and being settled into the bedroom she had seen earlier. A glass of water was placed near her head, and the blankets were brought to her chin, but she did not care.

She should have been there, should have been at his side like she had been beside her mother when she passed. She should have held his hand and squeezed it as he faded away. She should have been able to kiss his forehead one last time and know that he heard her tell him how much she loved him.

She should have been able to say goodbye.


	9. Revival

**Chapter 9: Revival**

Christine passed through haze and numbness, never quite becoming lucid enough to fully wake. Her eyes would split open, catch sight of the guest bedroom she had inhabited for what seemed like ages now, and cinch closed again, weighted by swollen eyelids and her own refusal to focus on her new reality. Every once in a while, she would roll to avoid the wet spot on her pillow caused by her tears, her body groaning its displeasure at the movement.

At some point, she had shed her corset, leaving her in her chemise, underclothes, and stockings, not caring that she tossed the garment across the room.

She was aware of some instances of Erik's visitation – how the mattress would dip with his weight, of the piercing nature of his gaze upon her. Sometimes she would feel his cold fingers upon her brow or pressing to feel her pulse at her wrist. Sometimes he would slip a hand at the nape of her neck and raise her head enough to force some water between her lips.

How many days passed, she did not know, nor did she truly care. The world moved on, whether _she_ did or not, and what did it _matter_ if she got up from this bed?

She would have continued to burrow down inside the warmth of the blankets, but Erik took away her choice. He lit candles in the small room, tossing them into bright light that burned behind Christine's eyelids. She pulled the blanket over her head and heard water running in the bathroom.

Then the blanket was yanked fully off of her, and she curled her legs up as though they might shield her from the cold. Erik stood at the foot of the bed, golden eyes glaring at her.

"Your bath is readying."

She buried her face in the pillow and used her arm as a shield from the light. "Leave me alone, Erik."

"No."

She heard him move before she peeked out to see him striding toward her. She managed to squeak out a protest as he bent down and encased her upper arm in his iron-strong grip, pulling her upright. His fingers were immovable, and she was helpless as he dragged her to her feet. The pressure of her weight upon her feet after so long abed sent tingling pain shooting up through her soles.

"Let go!" she said, trying to wrench free.

His breathing was harshly loud, but when he spoke, his voice was flat, controlled. "You need a bath, mademoiselle. If you will not get in willingly, then I will put you there myself."

She stared up at him through angry, blurry eyes, but he only met her glower evenly. How pitiful she must look. Now that she had a moment to calm, her head starting to clear, she could feel how matted her hair was, how her chemise clung to her sweaty body, how much she… smelled. Her face began to burn in shame, and she stared down at her dirty, stockinged feet.

Erik's grip on her arm eased, though he did not let go. "If you need help, little bird," he said with more softness, "I can give it."

She could feel tears flush hot behind her eyes, but she held them at bay. "I… do not have anything clean to change into afterward."

"I have appropriate clothing for you. Everything that you may need has been provided." He paused. "Can I release your arm?"

He meant, she realized, would she cooperate if he let go of her? She nodded, still unable to meet his eyes again. He headed to the bathroom, tested the water, then turned off the tap. He busied about for a moment before appearing back at her side.

"Your bath is ready." He shifted upon his feet, seeming almost nervous. "Do you require any more assistance?"

She swallowed. "No, thank you."

With a jerk of a nod, he stepped out of the room.

Using the bed to stabilize her still-shaky legs, Christine made her way to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Erik had draped the robe she had previously worn across a small chair, and he was right – everything she needed was here. She had never seen so many choices of soaps and oils, as though Erik had not known which she might prefer and wanted to provide something she might enjoy.

Sliding out of her dirty clothes, she stepped into the bath, the water just a smidge too warm. The heat began to immediately seep into her stiff muscles, and she released a sigh as she slid into the water. She unwound the bandages around her palms, ignoring the sting of the water against the scabs there. At least her scrapes were no longer bleeding.

Just how long _had_ she slept?

The metal key her father had given her began to warm against her skin, the chain long enough so that the item hung just between her breasts. Why had Papa not told her about the key even after she had asked him? And what did Raoul want with it?

For a while, she simply reclined against the curved porcelain, her thoughts warring with each other. Then she selected a soap that smelled of vanilla and berries and scrubbed her body clean, then dunked her head and used a generous amount of oil to loosen the grime from her scalp. The tub was long enough for her to float lengthwise in the bath, and she stared up at the white ceiling. Now that her head was clearer, now that she was beginning to climb out of the haze she had inhabited, she had so many questions burning inside her.

Finally, when she risked becoming chilled in the cooled water, Christine climbed out and dried herself on a thick towel. She let her hair air-dry until it was no longer dripping while she rubbed rose-scented lotion on her tired limbs. The bath had left her feeling drained, but she ignored the call of the comfortable bed.

In any case, Erik had stripped the sheets from the mattress, probably to wash them, and laid out clothes for her instead. She touched the midnight black fabric of a two-piece gown, clearly chosen for its color because of her present circumstances. She blinked away tears and unfolded the brown paper encasing new undergarments, including a black corset, a chemise with only thin straps so that it would not show under her gown, and a crinoline with black ruffled trim along the hem.

Every last detail had been seen to, including a black hat with a sheer veil, black stockings with garters, new black leather boots, and silk gloves, should she want them. Christine dressed in silence, leaving the hat and gloves on her dresser, before emerging from her room. The gown was a little loose on her thin frame, but the fabric made up in design what it lacked in color, its pleats cascading down the skirt, and delicate lace trimming the high collar and sleeves.

A savory aroma met her nose, the first thing she noticed. Now that she was clearer-headed, she saw the details in the living space to which Erik had brought her. A giant hearth with a blazing fire sat against the far wall, with rococo furniture in deep red arranged before it. Rugs covered much of the stone floor, each an intricate design in various shades.

Set off to the side, she saw a concert grand piano made of rich rosewood, each of its legs complexly sculped. Neat piles of parchment lay in arrangement around the piano. Drawn to the inky scrawls across a top sheet, Christine took a step toward them.

A throat clearing caught her attention. Erik stood in the entrance to a short hall. He too had changed into clean clothes, dressed all in black save his white shirt peeking around his cravat. He still wore his black mask – she was not certain why she thought that would change – but his hair appeared different than before, thicker and darker.

"Thank you for the clothes," she said, smoothing her hands down the top of her skirt.

"They are appropriate?"

"They are just what I need, and they fit amazingly well." The bodice was actually a bit too large, but the layers hid that fact. "However did you come by them?"

Erik stepped to the side and gestured down the hallway. "Perhaps a tale for another time. I have hot water for coffee or tea and garbure in the pot. Come and sit." He waited expectantly, so she walked by him and found a kitchen through another open doorway.

The simple kitchen contained a stove with a wood-burning oven, a tall cabinet in the corner, a sink imbedded in a countertop, and table with four chairs. Piles of fresh groceries lay sorted on the counters as though Erik had just gone shopping.

She sat at one of the chairs as requested, watching him with interest as he took command of the kitchen.

"Coffee or tea?" he asked.

"Coffee." She was not certain she could even stomach that, but her mouth was dry enough to attempt.

Erik spooned her a bowl of garbure – a soup made from ham, cabbage, and vegetables – and set it before her. Admittedly, the soup smelled heavenly, and Christine's stomach gave a growl of yearning. But her nausea had not abated, and she feared what might happen if she gave into the urge to eat. She had spent too many days of the past few weeks indulging in meals while her father had gone without.

She stared down at the steaming mixture. When Erik placed coffee in front of her, she cupped the china and let it warm her fingers, then took a sip. He settled into the chair directly in front of her, and she saw over the rim of her cup that he had a half-full cup at his place setting too, as though he had been enjoying it before she arrived.

She had never seen him eat or drink anything. He did not do so now, casually placing one hand on the table and looking at her in a way that felt prodding.

She took another sip of coffee and set down the cup. "I am not hungry."

His yellow eyes narrowed. "It has been three days since you arrived here. You need to eat."

"I cannot." Swirling the spoon in the garbure, she felt her empty stomach twist. She kept seeing her father's face before her, the contrast of his warm smile and quiet laugh with the paleness of his face lax in the throes of death.

A slap of a palm upon the table made her jump. "There are easier ways to die than starving yourself, if that is what you wish."

"Like strangulation?"

The words were out of her mouth before she realized what they were. If she could have bolted from the kitchen, she would have, but she did not trust her weak legs to carry her far enough nor quick enough to escape the look Erik was giving her now.

She tried to make her tongue work, but it was a dry, swollen thing in her mouth. "E-Erik, I-"

"You asked me once before, did you not?" His voice was soft, teetering on the edge of deadly. "You wished to know what I refused to continue doing for those who kept me chained beneath the ground. Do you still wish to know, frightened little bird? Because it seems to me that you already know the answer."

"I am tired of secrets," she whispered, sounding so thin and small to her own ears.

Erik brought both hands to the table, splaying them palms upward, the healing gashes around his wrists visible. "I have no one to blame but myself for what they did to me. They were in need of a runner, and I answered the call. I was… thoughtless and bored of life down here." He gestured around them. "For a while, they only asked me to steal for them, mostly as a manner of in-fighting among the cooperate leaders in the weapons industry. Eventually, I was asked to do more than theft."

He leaned back in his chair. One of his hands came up to cover his mask, and for one moment, she thought he meant to pull it off his face. Instead, he merely held onto it, eyes scorching between his long fingers.

She shifted uncomfortably. "Tell me. Please."

"I am often enough to scare someone into cooperating, but when I could not frighten my target into submission, I was asked to pursue other means, even if that meant taking a life. However, I had gone down into that darkness before, into the life of an assassin. I could not do it again. I should have taken my chance to disappear, but my employer was more ruthless than I expected, and they were familiar enough with my methods to overpower me long enough to place the chains."

"You… you said you had been chained up for almost two years when we met."

He straightened and took up his cup of coffee. Then he shuddered and placed it back upon the table as though he had thought better of drinking in front of her. "I suppose my employer had been distracted enough not to bother with me for a while. Leclair and Plamondon had been my caretakers for quite some time."

"Your employer?"

"I have answered your question, have I not? This is my answer."

Christine contemplated the man before her. An assassin – she had already suspected that he had murdered before. The way he had killed those men at MASE, the ease of his motions when he strangled them, she had already known the truth. Her heart pounded quicker than before, but even though she felt a tremor of fear, she knew within her heart that Erik would not harm her.

"If you wish to leave," Erik said, "I can arrange your transport."

Her blue eyes were glassy. "I do not fear you, Erik. You have never done anything to harm me." And when she could have stopped him, she had done nothing to halt his actions against those men. When it meant saving her father, she would have allowed _anything_.

"I have nowhere to go," she continued, "Papa was my home, and now that he is gone…" She struggled against those hated tears and managed to keep them at bay. "I do not like what you have done, but I also know that you saved me when you did not have to. You could have easily left me in that apartment, and who knows what might have happened to me. I am so utterly grateful."

The tears did come then. She rubbed them away with the heels of her hands. "May I stay here? At least for a little while?"

"You may. As long as you begin to eat."

She let out a rueful laugh at that. "I will try." As she began to slowly eat spoonfuls of the delicious soup, Erik rose from the table and poured out the rest of his coffee, then washed the cup and put it away.

"I am sounding too much like the Daroga," she heard him mutter under his breath.

"Pardon?" she said, spoon halfway to her mouth.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. "No matter. Come join me when you are finished. I have something I would like to show you."

Christine did as he asked, managing about half the bowl before she feared upsetting her stomach. She felt warmer now having eaten, and she folded her hands around the cup, bringing it with her as she followed Erik back into the living room.

It took her a moment to track where he was. She found him seated upon the piano bench, the wide breadth of his shoulders flexing as he swiped his hands across the keyboard cover. The movement was… tender, the touch of someone reunited with a beloved instrument. A shiver ran up her spine, a reaction that confused her.

She stepped a little closer. "This is your home, isn't it?"

"Indeed," he answered, not turning to look at her. "As a young man, I wandered about Europe for quite some time. I have not had… a _happy_ life, Christine." With quick decision, he flipped open the cover, revealing immaculate white ivory keys. He splayed his fingers upon them, spider-like, not yet pressing any notes. "I found myself in Persia, turned into an assassin before I knew how to counter that dark slide into hell."

"The first time," she said softly, coming to stand just behind him and to his side. She itched to sit upon the bench with him, but she did not want to block this uncharacteristic revealing of himself to her.

He snorted through the nose holes in his mask. "Yes, the first time. After I escaped Persia, I buried myself here and spent years building this place. Indeed, it is my home, perhaps the only home I have cared to stay in for a long amount of time."

Finally, she could not resist and slid between piano and bench to sit next to him. To her delight, he shifted ever so slightly to give her enough comfortable space. The rich wood of the piano assailed her senses, and although she did not play much herself, she let her own fingertips caress the keys, aware of Erik's eyes upon her.

"You are lucky to have such a place that is yours, Erik."

"What is the point," he said throatily, "of having a place when you are alone?"

She sucked in a sharp breath. She dared to look up, but he was straight-backed on the bench next to her, eyes still staring at her hands upon the keys.

She managed to push the words past her lips. "I, too, have no one." It was a new normal that she would eventually have to accept, and maybe eventually she could think and speak the words about her father without these hated tears streaming down her cheeks. Angrily, she scrubbed them away.

Erik's yellow eyes pivoted to stare down at her. The line of gray skin visible between mask and collar bobbed as he swallowed. "You have me, little bird," he said. "For what I am worth."

She felt her face grow hot and turned to face the piano again. "D-Do you play?"

In answer, his hands – long, thin, the hands of an assassin, of her savior, of someone she trusted far more than she undoubtedly should – began to spin music from the ivories. She let the melody wash over her, the notes nothing she recognized but everything she had not understood she needed. She realized, from the way he would pause and then continue, that he was likely creating the music as he went, churning the notes like butter and melding them together as sure as any smith would form metal.

She was crying again, she could tell by the wetness upon her cheeks. When he stopped playing, she stuttered out an apology.

"Do not apologize for feeling, Christine."

One of his hands caught hers before she could wipe away her tears, enveloping her wrist. His other thumbed away the trails, the coolness of his touch welcome upon her flushed skin.

For the first time, she felt an urge to remove his mask. She wanted to see his lips move when he spoke, to feel his breath as real as any other person, to touch his face the way he touched hers. Just as quickly, the fleeting thought was gone.

He lowered his hand, and she did not miss the way his thumb stroked the edge of her mouth before dropping away. "Shall I play more?"

"Please."

She let the music sweep over her once again, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her father had once possessed the ability to generate songs at will, to weave melodies together as someone might weave a blanket, except he had used the violin as his instrument of choice. Erik's hands flew across the keys, his fingers pressing and sweeping without hesitation. She remembered him saying that he could also sing, and she hoped that he might one day demonstrate to her his voice. For now, she closed her eyes and reveled in the twists and hills of the piano's well-tuned resonances.

"Erik," she said after a while.

He paused instantly. "Yes?"

"What… what do you think they did with my father's body? Do you think-" She could not finish. While she had spent the last three days sleeping, who knows what might have happened to Papa. She should have made effort to take care of him.

"He was buried in Montmartre Cemetery," Erik said. "A donor arranged for a plot of land and memorial for him."

Her eyes widened. "How do you know?"

"I hope I have not overstepped my bounds, Christine, but I am that donor. I anonymously gave an amount of money toward his funeral expenses, and he will be buried at Montmartre. Once I believe it is safe enough, you will be able to visit him there."

Her father would have a proper burial! She had suffered so much anxiety believing Charles would be shoved into the catacombs – or worse, displayed in La Morgue for anyone who wanted to ogle the dead there. To hear that he would have a resting place in such a cemetery, and that she would be able to go see his grave whenever she needed…

Christine threw her arms around Erik's torso with a sob. "Thank you, thank you!"

She felt his chest constrict as he sucked in a shaky breath. "It was the least I could do to repay you for your own acts of kindness." He relaxed a little, and one of his hands came to settle upon the crown of her head, caressing her curly strands in a way she thought meant to be soothing.

She squeezed him harder, the linen of his jacket coarse against her inflamed cheek. So much to take in today, she could feel herself giving way to the exhaustion once again. Erik seemed to sense this, pulling the keyboard cover closed and turning so she was better supported while slumped against him.

"Perhaps you should rest?"

With a nod, she agreed, but she was reluctant to let go. With some maneuvering, Erik got them both to their feet, and she trudged her way, supported, to the spare bedroom that she now thought of as hers.

"Will you show me more of your home tomorrow?" she asked as she sat upon her bed. "I would like that."

Erik hovered in the doorway uncertainly. "I can do so."

She wanted so badly to trust him in all ways. He had given her such a gift tonight, and if she was to get anymore answers, she needed his help. Time and time again, he had only bolstered her confidence in him. She now thought he _would_ help her, if only she would ask.

From within her collar, she fished out the delicate chain around her neck and held aloft the small key.

* * *

 **Up next: another player in this party.**


	10. Daroga

**Chapter 10: Daroga**

The golden key glistened between them as Christine held it upward. To her credit, her fingers trembled only slightly.

Erik puffed what might have been a sigh, muffled as it was behind his mask. "I wondered when you might share that with me."

"You knew?"

He shrugged sharp-pointed shoulders. "I am rather observant," he said, but Christine remembered how he had pulled her out of bed while she had been wearing only her chemise. Of course, he had seen it then… and who knew what else he had seen.

Christine felt her pulse leap in embarrassment, but she could not change what had already happened. The best she could hope for was to conduct herself with better etiquette from now on. Not that her actions with Erik had ever been grounded in the typical association that existed between a man and a woman.

"How did you come by it?" Erik asked. "I assume it was not in your possession when you first inquired me of it."

She slid the chain free of her neck and cupped the warmed metal in her palm. "Papa gave it to me." Staring down at the small metal key, she thought about how Charles had put it around her neck and hidden it within her collar without any explanation. "He told me to keep it safe, but he gave me no other information about it."

"May I see it?"

She let it glide from her hand to his outstretched one, and she watched while Erik examined the item closely. "He gave the key to me the last – the last time I saw him." Her throat tried to close, but she had to be strong, had to move forward if she was ever to get answers. "When those men were trying to break into our apartment, Papa made certain that I had it hidden. As though he wanted to be certain they did not discover it."

Erik took his time looking the key over, holding it up to the lantern like he was looking for any clues to its purpose. "Do you have any idea what it unlocks?"

She shook her head. "I do not even know if it is the same key that Raoul was inquiring about, but Papa clearly thought it was important enough to give it to me." During a time when those men were trying to break down their door. Why had Raoul wanted this key so badly? He had said it contained something about the company that he thought was important, but had that knowledge been enough to be involved in her father's death? How could he have done this to her – to Papa – after the times they had shared together?

An icy touch upon her cheek, and she sucked in a sharp breath, looking up to see Erik standing closer than before. He drew back his hand, which had wiped away a fresh flood of tears from her eyes. She hated everything about this situation save from one fact – Erik was now free, and he was continuously surprising her with his tenderness.

She looked away quickly, refocusing her attention on replacing the chain back around her neck after Erik handed it back. "Any ideas what it unlocks?"

"I have a few, yes," he said, stepping back out of reach again. He seemed to grow contemplative, folding his long arms across himself, eyes affixed to some unseen point. Then he pushed off the dresser upon which he had been leaning and strode quickly to the door. "Let me think on it tonight, and we can discuss the matter again in the morning. Goodnight, Christine."

Leaving her staring after him with his sudden departure, Erik closed the bedroom door behind him. But Christine was on her feet and hurrying after him, tossing open her door. He had vanished, his speed tremendously fast when he wanted to escape – she could tell by now when he was avoiding something that had troubled him.

A glance around the living area told her told her he was not there, and she dashed to the kitchen to find him gone as well. Besides the front door, there were only two more doors in this small home, neither of which she had gone beyond before. The door at the far end of the hall was larger and fancier, and it reminded her more of the front door – perhaps it was another exit?

She tried the closest door first, and a twist of the knob told her it was unlocked. She should have knocked, perhaps, but really, _he_ should not have run off like that without allowing her to agree that the conversation was over.

A fire illuminated one side of the room that was clearly another bedroom, a large four-poster bed on the opposite side. The stone floor was covered in a lush red carpet, a stark contrast to the black patterned wallpaper. Heavy, dark furniture adorned the room. The room reminded her of Erik – dark and magnificent.

She had caught him in the process of removing his mask.

He stood in the middle of the room, clearly in the process of heading to what looked like another bathroom beyond the bed. At the sound of the door opening, he whirled, ducking behind the heavy black drapes that encircled the four-poster bed, but not before she caught a glimpse of a high, sharp cheekbone covered in gray skin and a yellow eye widened in an expression she had not wanted to see from him.

Fear.

She stumbled back a step, his movement to hide himself so explosive that she thought for a moment she would be run down by the force of it. Once the thudding of her heart began to settle in her ears, she could hear the sound of her own gasps for breath mirroring those of the man now buried in the shadows of the bed.

"Erik, I-" She paused, struggling to calm herself. "I am so sorry."

"Get out," he said, voice biting the words at her.

Despite the warning in that tone, she took a few shaky steps forward. "Please, I am sorry. I had no idea that you would be-"

"I have asked you to leave my bedroom, mademoiselle. As this is my house, if you refuse to do so, I shall have no choice but to take action."

His threat made shock slice through her, and she could feel her face drain of color. And yet, she did not leave, not because she was frozen to the spot in fear, but because she worried that somehow, she had crossed a line that could not be overcome if she left. Even with the threat, even with the chill in his voice, she still did not believe he would harm her.

"As master of this house, that is your right," she said softly. "I did not mean to intrude upon your personal space, and I certainly did not mean to catch you in a moment with your mask undone."

" _Christine!"_ This time with a touch of pleading.

She continued as though speaking to a wild, caged thing that could spring at her at any moment. "I would never seek to catch you unaware on purpose. May I come to you, Erik? You have your mask back on, don't you?"

When he did not protest, she began to cross the room, the warmth of the fire calming her jumpy nerves. She allowed her footfalls to be loud and obvious on the carpet. Once she stood in front of the fire, she could see Erik's towering form outlined in the shadow of the bedpost, his golden eyes watching her every movement.

She did not come closer than this – it was enough to be able to see him again. "I _am_ sorry. For what it is worth, I did not see much beyond a bit of your cheek. Now, I am going back out to the drawing room. Would you please join me when you are ready?"

She perceived a slight bit of nod, so she turned and headed out of the bedroom, focusing on keeping her footsteps slow and her limbs loose. However, once she closed the door behind her, it was all she could do not to dash back to the main living space.

What she had almost glimpsed of Erik's face… she knew he wore the mask for a reason, knew he kept his visage a total secret from her. He had once used revealing his face to her as a threat to make her leave, had he not? She had seen that slight line of gray skin, that angular cheekbone, and she had known however the rest of him might appear, his reaction to her glimpse of him was even more momentous that the slight revelation of his appearance itself.

She sat upon the piano bench, peeled back the cover, and allowed her fingertips to plink randomly across the keys. She had never possessed any sort of talent for instruments, but it felt soothing just to touch the smooth ivory, to feel the slight give under her fingers and hear the piano correspond.

She did not hear him enter the sitting room, instead feeling him at her back as he approached. A sad smile plucked at her lips, but she did not turn to greet him, instead remaining focused on the keys. Thus, she was only mildly startled to find his arms to either side of hers, his chest subtly pressing against her shoulders as he bent over her. His sleeves rode up, revealing healing red bands around his wrists, his bandages removed. His fingers spread across the keys, and he began to play.

It did not take her long to recognize the aria as the one she had sung outside his window that night that seemed like a lifetime ago. That night had shattered her long-held illusion of a life she might build with Raoul and made her realize the current reality of the man being beaten beneath Raoul's company. That night, she had come apart, and only song had managed to put her back together again.

Now, Erik was offering the song back to her, and she could only accept it the best way she knew how. She began to hum along with him, not quite emotionally ready to put her voice to words once again. In this, they had a connection, a shared love of music that could carry them through any tension that formed between them.

When he pressed the last notes, she rested her own hands atop his, willing him to stay and not flee again. At her back, he shuddered but held still. Perhaps it was because they were not face-to-face, perhaps it was because she had not _asked_ that caused him to think he could offer. Whatever it was, he began to speak, his voice hovering just above her head.

"My face…" She heard the wet sound of him trying to moisten his mouth, and she shivered. "My face has plagued me since the moment I was born. The nuns at the orphanage kept my face tightly bound, so much so that sometimes I could not even see. Even after I escaped, I realized that those around me needed my appearance covered, and they would go to great lengths to keep it so."

Christine's lips parted, but she held back any reaction of her own.

"However," he continued, "I have learned that there are two types of people in this world – those who desperately need my face covered, and those who are willing to exploit it to their advantage. Few others do not fall into one of those categories. While you, little bird, have proven yourself willing to stomach my presence, _I_ am not willing to subject you to the full horror of my appearance."

He went to straighten, sliding his hands from underneath hers. In a rush of panic, she twisted around on the bench and grabbed onto the lip of his waistcoat. It was an awkward angle, but one that caused him to freeze in position, yellow eyes staring down the sloped nose of his mask at her.

"I do not _stomach_ your presence, Erik," she said, feeling a flush come over her. "I-I very much enjoy your company, and I am certain I would continue to do so without your mask."

"You speak out of ignorance," he said thickly.

Maybe so, but Christine hoped she would be as strong as her words. "I speak out of sincerity," she countered.

He stared at her for a long moment while she held her breath, his eyes almost piercing her resolve. Then he disentangled her fingers from his vest and, just when she thought he was going to leave, he bent to his knees before her. Suddenly, she found she could not breathe even if she wanted to. Willing herself to move, she maneuvered her legs around the bench so she could fully face him, tucking her skirt around her legs as though that might shield her from this moment.

Would that he would say something, but he did not. Instead, he took one of her hands and shaped her fingers around his mask, the fabric neutral under her fingertips – neither warm nor cool. Two of her fingers curled around the firm shape of the nose, another two around the smooth surface that covered his mouth; there, it was warmer, and her stomach gave a little flutter. Her thumb had just enough breadth to reach the lip of the mask near his ear.

"Why?" she whispered.

When he spoke, she felt the rumble of his words under her fingertips. "To shatter any delusion that you have about who I am. About _what_ I am. And then I cannot be accused of hiding anything from you for my own benefit, can I? Once you know the worst parts of me, I will no longer be lying to you, will I?"

Her thoughts spun. This situation had spiraled out of control so suddenly. Never had she thought he was lying to her. Hiding the truth, yes, but so often that seemed to be an act of protecting her rather than deliberate falsehoods.

 _The worst parts of me_. What did he mean by that? He was waiting for her to remove his mask so that he could systematically peel himself apart before her, but that was never her intention. Although she wanted to know everything about him, in time, she would never have insisted before he trusted her enough to give over himself on his own.

He had never demanded anything differently from _her_.

She shifted her hand so that instead of grasping his mask to remove it, she was cupping his covered cheek. Her fingertips slid just ever so slightly beyond the edge of the mask, and the skin there felt rough to the touch. Was the rest of his face the same? She pushed away such thoughts and concentrated on the sound of his shuddering breath. His yellow eyes darted back and forth to each of hers as though if he could not find reassurance in one, he sought it from the other.

"I cannot do this to you, Erik," she said as gently as she could. "Not until you are ready for me to see. What brought this on? Was… was it the key?"

In a swift motion, he had straightened to his feet, ducking from her touch and backing away before she could initiate anymore contact. She stood as well but did not do anything else.

Erik shook himself as though coming out of a dream. "While I have some ideas for what that key might open, this is beyond my kind of knowledge. I tend to dabble more in picking locks than using keys." He turned slightly away from her, the long line of his body held stiffly. "I do, however, know someone who knows more about this type of security."

"Would he be willing to help?"

"I can be persuasive enough for him to do so."

Christine's heart leapt, and she could not help the smile that curved her lips. Despite what had just happened between him, despite the cataclysm she might have just dodged, she desperately wanted to pursue this thread. It was her last link to her father.

"I will go to him and see what I can discover. I will need to bring your key."

She reached up to grasp the small bit of metal resting below the collar of her bodice. "I- I do not want to be parted with it. Could I not come with you?"

His eyes narrowed. "This is not up for debate."

"I wasn't debating – I was asking." Her hand tightened, the shape of the key cutting into her palm. "Please, Erik. This is all I have left of Papa, and it is the only clue I have as to… as to why he died. I need to go with you. If it has anything to do with Papa, you will need me there."

"The walk will be long and unpleasant."

She tilted up her chin. She could deal with a long and unpleasant walk if at the end of it, she could finally get some answers. And anyway, she might feel a bit better about her present situation if she could glean more information about _where_ exactly they were currently residing.

She knew that she could do little if Erik decided to leave her here, especially because he would have to take the small boat in order to do so, possibly leaving her stranded. Something was going on with him, something he was hiding from her, and she could only smooth his worry if she was there at his side.

"Let me come with you," she said, stopping short of pleading.

Now he did turn fully away from her, shoulders stiff. "We will need to wait until later in the night. I suggest you rest for a few hours while you can. I will wake you when it is time." Without waiting for a reply, he strode quickly from the sitting room, heading back down the hallway to his bedroom.

She did not dare follow him this time. So much seemed to be left unsaid within his comments. She was beginning to realize that sometimes, whenever the subject turned too uncomfortable, Erik dealt with it by cutting the topic off shortly and leaving. Christine still had so many questions – she still did not even know where they _were_ , for instance.

She knew she should go lay down in her room, exhaustion plucking at her eyelids even now. However, her heart pounded with a new nervous energy, and she instead decided to explore the sitting room. Built-in shelves were arranged around the room, and she perused their titles, selecting a copy of _Wuthering Heights_ before settling in front of the fireplace.

Even though she had read this novel before, she found she could not concentrate on the words. Soon, she gave up and fixated on the flames licking across the planks of wood. She must have closed her eyes, because the next moment, she felt a hand upon her shoulder and a voice calling her name.

"It is time," Erik said, straightening once she had woken with a start. "Dress warmly."

Nodding, she hurried off to her bedroom. There, she found thicker gloves and a fur muff for her hands. She pinned up her hair and attached the bonnet with a thin, short mourning veil, sucking in a shaky breath at the morbid reminder. She found Erik waiting by the fire with black cloak, which he held aloft for her to shrug into after she approached. The cloak was trimmed in soft fur that surrounded her neck when she clasped it at her throat.

"Warm enough?" she asked, presenting herself in an effort to keep the tone light. In truth, she felt uncomfortable dressed all in black, an obvious testament to her loss.

Erik's sharp eyes swept over her. "Indeed." He himself had also put on a black overcoat, which skimmed his calves and made him seem even more imposing by the way it broadened his shoulders. A wide-brimmed hat cast his black-masked face into further shadow. They made quite the pair, dressed all in dismal color as they were.

Erik took up a lantern, which he lit. "Shall we go?"

She could feel the metal of the key at her throat. "I'm ready."

She expected them to head back to the dingy they had used to cross the lake, but Erik turned and led them to the door beyond his bedroom. He opened it, revealing a passageway yawning into darkness. The light from the lantern could not reach far enough to reveal any sort of end to it.

He glanced at her. "Frightened already, yes?"

 _Yes_. She bit the inside of her cheek and shook her head in defiance. Stepping into the passage, Erik turned enough to offer her his free hand, his long fingers encased in a black leather glove.

Swallowing, she slid one of her hands out of her muff and gripped those sure fingers.

They began to walk down what quickly turned into a tunnel rather than a hallway. Leaving behind the warmth of his home, Christine was thankful for her thick clothing. Even though she was frightened by her surroundings, Erik's firm grip on her hand kept her grounded. She focused on following the tall line of his back, assured that he was thinking of her safety, his eyes flitting down to her every so often.

Soon, their path ended at a thick metal door. Erik produced a key, but even with it, he had to twist a serious of bolts and knobs to cause the door to swing open, revealing that this tunnel merely spilled into the side of another. A thin stream of water drifted down the middle of this channel, which was lined in paving stone.

Christine's eyes widened. "The sewers?"

"Yes," Erik said simply, tugging her to the left. "We are fortunate that it has rained so much recently, no? That should keep down the smell."

"Are we to travel down here the entire way?"

"Mostly. Do not forget that I am a wanted man, and you, mademoiselle, are considered missing. The gendarmerie will have posters with your likeness posted about the city for a while yet." He picked his pace, and she had to sometimes trot to keep up with him. "Quickly now. We have quite a distance to cover."

They walked in silence for a while, Christine losing track of how many turns they made. She would never find her way back in this labyrinth of passageways, and she had no idea how he managed to keep his bearings straight except by extensive experience. Her life had turned so upside down, walking as she was beneath the city of Paris. Her father was gone, her belongings likely lost, nothing left except the man striding before her, his confident footsteps scraping against the stone.

Yes, she did have Erik, and he had made it clear that he had no intention of leaving her side. She gave his hand a squeeze, causing him to glance down at her, eyes glowing in the lantern's soft light.

"Don't you suppose you should tell me where we are going?" she asked.

"If you believe you need to know, then I shall tell you. We are going to Rue de Rivoli, near the Seine."

She blinked. "We are going to the Tuileries Garden?"

He chuffed what she thought might have been a sort of laugh. "Indeed not, unless you wish for a midnight stroll in the dark. I know a man who lives across from the gardens, or at least he did when last I saw him. He was once the Daroga of Mazandaran – Persia, that is – and therefore should be knowledgeable enough to help you."

"Daroga?" It was not a word she had heard before.

"Police Chief."

She stopped walking, bringing them both up short even though she did not let loose his hand. "You are bringing me to the police?"

"Hardly, little bird. He does consult work for the gendarmerie now, but I would never put him on the same side as them. I suppose if I had to assign him a compliment, it would be that he does an excellent job of skirting the law without breaking it." He began walking again, and she let him pull her along. "You may tell him what you wish, Christine, without fear. I will let you decide how much you want to reveal."

"Will he not mind being awoken in the middle of the night?"

"Oh, I hope he does." He sounded like he liked the idea very much.

The resonance of rushing water picked up, and they turned a corner to find a thin waterfall that rose up nearly to the top of a dead end. Erik raised the lantern to look about, casting the light onto a metal ladder in front of the cascading stream.

"Hold this," he said, handing her the lantern. Then he fished in his pocket for a roll tucked within his coat, selecting two thin bits of metal. Climbing the ladder to what looked like a storm drain, he proceeded to pick a padlock there. This freed the grate so he could move it aside before poking his head out to look around.

He slid quickly back to the floor of the tunnel. "No one in sight, and there is a moon overhead. We will not need this." And he snuffed out the lantern, casting them into near total darkness.

Christine struggled to let her eyes adjust to the lack of light, and she felt Erik's hand in hers again, pulling her forward until he pressed her palm against the first metal rung of the ladder.

"Go on," he said behind her. "I shall follow."

Taking a steadying breath, she felt her way up the ladder, hearing Erik's murmur of apology before his hands gripped her waist and hoisted her onto the street above. It was by far an unpleasant experience, climbing onto the paving stones, but she was glad to breathe fresh air again. Erik sprung himself free, replaced the grate with lock intact, and they were off again into the deeper shadows against a building.

"Not far now, brave little bird. We will take the door, yes? And not the window."

"Y-Yes." She was rather done climbing right now.

Half a block, and Erik shouldered his way into a door next to what looked like a book shop. Christine stumbled into the stairwell behind him, happy to be out of the cold, and kept close to her companion, the light much dimmer in here. They climbed several floors and arrived at a nondescript apartment door at the end of the hallway.

Erik tapped a knuckle against the door, quietly as though trying not to wake any other inhabitants here. When no answer came from within, he knocked again, then pulled out his tool roll as though to pick the lock.

"A moment," came a lightly-accented voice from within. They heard some rustling, and the sound of someone kicking something over followed by a muffled groan of pain. Erik turned his eyes to the ceiling.

"The hour is too late for visitors," the voice said, closer now. "Who is it?"

"Open the door," Erik said, "or I shall."

The scraping of several bolts being pulled aside, and the door opened a few inches. Around Erik's arm, Christine caught a glimpse of a middle-aged man with darker skin, his brown eyes wide as he peered up at Erik.

"You are alive, after all!" He stepped aside immediately, allowing Erik to sweep inside. Christine followed so the door could be shut behind them, and the man looked her up and down. "And not alone, I see."

"Clever observation, Daroga," Erik said. He gestured at her. "This is Mademoiselle Christine Daaé. Christine – this is Nadir Khan."

Christine put out her gloved hand, which the Persian accepted to shake, his grip firm but warm. "Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Khan."

"Likewise, Mademoiselle Daaé." Even though he seemed dazed by their appearance on his doorstep, he was recovering quickly. "Please, make yourself at home here. Erik, stoke the fire, will you, while I put on some tea?" He hurried into what must be the kitchen, and she could hear a kettle clank against the stove.

Erik crouched to do as Monsieur Khan had requested, and soon he had enough of a blaze going to warm Christine's chilled face. Khan seemed nice enough, and when he returned, he had put himself together moreso than before, dressing in a patterned silk gown that reminded Christine of the one Erik had given her to wear, a squarish hat with a golden tassel atop his salt and peppered head.

Erik had seemed confident that this man could aid her in discovering the purpose of her key. As he sat beside her on a sofa, with Nadir Khan in an armchair adjacent to them, one of his knees bounced with a nervous energy. She had hoped this venture might give her some clear answers, a nudge toward the path she was supposed to take next, but now she worried that she might simply come away with more questions about _Erik._

Christine waited for him to speak, but since he did not do so, she opened her mouth to explain why they were there.

However, Khan raised a hand to cut her off. "I can guess you are here wanting something from me, Erik, but I will need some answers first."

And from his robe he pulled out a pistol.


	11. Confessions

**So happy to see so much Nadir love on here! I have a huge Daroga-shaped soft spot. I hope I've treated him well here.**

* * *

 **Chapter 11: Confessions**

Christine heard the unmistakable click of the pistol being cocked as Nadir Khan leveled the barrel upon Erik, who sat closer to him than she did. She gasped and might have leapt to her feet if it were not for Erik's hand a calming weight upon her knee. Although his eyes narrowed, he did not seem concerned by the gun trained on his chest.

She, on the other hand, did not react well. Her heart thundered in her ears, and she could feel a cold sweat break out across her body. Her father had died by such a weapon, and if Erik were shot at such close range, he would surely perish.

"The gun is not necessary, Daroga," Erik said, voice smooth. "You are frightening the girl."

Khan's mouth remained pressed in a hard line, but he did glance at Christine. "Two years of nothing, Erik, and then you show up here in the middle of the night, without a word of warning, with the very woman the city has been scrambling to find."

Christine's eyebrows drew together as she frowned. Why would the gendarmerie be that concerned with her disappearance? She was merely the daughter of a groundskeeper.

She did not miss the way Erik shifted to the balls of his feet, and she doubted Khan did either. Erik's grip tightened on her knee. "If I could have sent word beforehand, I would have. Put the gun away, old man, before you hurt yourself."

"Answer me this," Khan said. "Did you kidnap this woman?"

"I did not kidnap this woman unnecessarily."

"That is not an answer, Erik! The newspapers have been spreading rumors about what happened at Manufacture d'Armes. About how someone came in, slaughtered four people, and took the Vicomte's fiancée hostage. And now – here she is! What am I supposed to think?"

"Hold on," Christine interjected. "The Vicomte's _fiancée_?"

Erik sat up, straightening his back, and tucked one of his hands into his trouser pocket. "Are you accusing me of something, Daroga? I would be very careful with my next words."

Although he did not lower the gun, Christine saw Khan's eyes follow the movements of Erik's hand. Beads of sweat broke out across his brow below his cap. The two men stared at each other.

Erik broke eye contact first. "This was a mistake. Christine, we are leaving." Then he leapt to his feet, apparently not that concerned that the Persian would shoot him for moving.

 _What?_

Christine understood very little about what was happening between these two men, but she had not taken a walk through the sewers of Paris only to turn back now. When Khan made no move to follow Erik with the weapon, she decided to act. She darted to the door before Erik reached it and blocked his path, her arms stretched wide. Erik drew up to her, looming, eyes ablaze with warning.

"Erik, you said he could help us! We can't go until we have _tried_." She stepped forward enough to lay her palm against his chest. "Please? Can we not trust him? Is that not what you said?"

In the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle. Nadir stood, turning to face them, the gun still in his hand but aimed at the floor. "Answer me this, mademoiselle: are you with him willingly?"

Christine had considered this before, the fact that she had little choice in where she now resided. Even though she could have asked Erik to take her somewhere else, she would have no idea where that _somewhere else_ would be. As long as Erik was willing to keep her in his home, that was where she wanted to stay.

"Yes, Monsieur Khan." She tilted her chin at his pistol. "Would you kindly put that away? A similar weapon killed my father, and I would rather not experience the death of someone I care about twice in one week."

"Ah. Right. Yes, I will." He released the hammer, strode to the hearth, and placed the pistol on the mantle. "Would you be so kind as to make tea for the three of us?"

Worried, she looked at Erik, but he gave a small nod. She hurried off in the direction of the whistling steam and lifted the kettle free to stop the high-pitched noise. She could hear Khan speaking softly, his words difficult to understand in the other room. Cream and sugar were already set upon a tray, as well as three cups, so all she had to do was pour the hot water through the mesh into the teapot.

When she returned to the parlor, tray in hand, Khan had Erik's shoulders clasped as though he had finished embracing the other man. Upon seeing her, Khan stepped back, wiping at his face with a handkerchief.

"Forgive me, Erik. I had about given you up for dead. Thank you, my dear. I take mine black."

The three of them settled back into their seats, and Christine poured tea for herself and Monsieur Khan – Erik declined a cup.

"You must have thought me alive," Erik said dryly, "to have continued venturing to my home. Imagine my surprise to find not only the place dust-free but fresh food in my ice box."

Khan shrugged. "What can I say? I had hoped that you might return one day, and here you are. Where _have_ you been?" Erik did not reply, but Khan seemed used to such diffidence. "What will you tell me, hmm? Must I keep guessing?"

"May I clarify something?" Christine asked after taking a sip of her tea. "I heard you call me the Vicomte's fiancée."

"Aren't you?"

"Definitely not!" Erik was staring at her with sharp interest, but she pointedly ignored him, not allowing herself to be derailed by other thoughts right now. "I do not believe we had any sort of relationship that could be called an engagement, and if the police believe otherwise, they have been misinformed."

Khan glanced between the two of them. "It is a severe charge to call the Vicomte de Chagny a liar, mademoiselle."

"Raoul told them that?" She was shocked, and she put her teacup down so her shaking hands did not spill it. "When he and I last parted, I truly believed I would never see him again. I suppose I can understand how he believes I was abducted, but I left him with little room to believe we were engaged."

At her side, Erik shifted, fingers twitching where they were splayed across his upper thighs. He might appear relaxed, but she had seen him uncomfortable enough times to understand that he was anything but. Was this talk about her relationship with Raoul causing this reaction from him?

Nadir reclined back in his chair, cupping his tea as though to warm his fingers. "It will likely be impossible for me to influence the direction of the gendarmerie, but I will do what I can. If you tell me what happened that night of your father's death, I may be able to at least guide them in the right direction."

"Still walking both sides of the law, Daroga," Erik said.

Khan pointedly ignored him. "Go on, my dear, if you wish me to understand."

She did, especially if she could clear Erik as the reason for her disappearance. She wanted the police focused on _why_ her father had died and not what had happened to her.

"He was shot and killed by a man named Plamondon, an employee of MASE," she said. "That night, Papa – Charles – and I heard men breaking into the building. He had me flee to the roof to escape, and I asked Erik for help. By the time we reached upstairs again, Charles had already been murdered."

Amazingly, her voice wavered only slightly during her explanation. She had left out the details about Erik's imprisonment in the basement and of the three men he had killed. It was not her place to implicate him for actions that at the time had seemed necessary.

Khan scratched at his beard in thought. "Yes, the details of the scene clearly show that Plamondon and your father were caught in a shootout, and that Plamondon had kicked in the door before confronting Monsieur Daaé. However, this does not explain how three other men came to be killed, one by gunshot and two by strangulation with a chain." Here he looked deliberately at Erik, who did not seem concerned by the extra, focused attention.

Erik tapped long fingers against his thigh. "The men were harassing Mademoiselle Daaé, and clearly her father's life was in danger. Given these circumstances, the only reasonable conclusion can be that they were slain in self-defense."

Could Erik have dealt with those men in some other method? Christine remembered the way he had strangled Leclair, murmuring in his ear that at least to Erik, it was an act of vengeance rather than protecting Christine at his side. At the time, Christine had cared about little except reaching her father quickly.

"I was there," she said softly. "I agree that it was self-defense." She roused herself, setting her teacup on the table. "The question you _should_ be asking is why did these men target my father?"

"A question to which I have no answers," Khan said.

Christine pressed a hand to her collarbone, to where the thin chain delved into her bodice. "Raoul – the Vicomte – had asked me if I knew about a key that Monsieur Martel possessed that apparently could open a chest with important documents about MASE."

"Martel. The residing chairman of Manufacture d'Armes."

She nodded. "I had never heard of such a key before he asked me, and when I asked Charles about it, he dodged my questions." She swallowed past the tightening in her throat. "But before I left his side, before Plamondon killed him, he gave me this."

From her collar, she pulled the chain free. Her hat was too large to maneuver the chain over her head, so she had undo the clasp before passing it to Khan. The Persian selected a pair of thin wire-rimmed spectacles from his side pocket and perched them on the end of his nose before taking a close look at the key.

"It seems newly made. And far too small to belong to something large – as, say, a door."

"It likely belongs to a safe of some kind," Erik said.

"Agreed, but many of the newer safes are being made with combination locks. No keys to manage that way, you see." He squinted, running his thumb over the smooth metal. "There is a number engraved into the side of it. 254." He glanced up at Christine. "Does that mean anything to you, mademoiselle?"

She shook her head. "My father owned no safe of any kind. He kept our funds stored in floorboards or in shoes, but we truly never had much that needed protecting. Most of our belongings were sold over the years." For food and clothing and shelter. Her heart ached.

Khan handed the key back to her, and she replaced it around her neck. "I heard of a new business that has sprung up here in Paris, sort of like a bank, but simply made for storage. It is in fashion in America to keep one's valuables in such a place, but it has not quite caught on amongst the French. Because it is numbered, I think your key might belong to a set of matching keys, each opening a different numbered box."

"So, this key opens one of those boxes?"

"I am afraid not," he said, throwing her a pitying look. "I toured the facility when it opened, and all of its boxes use combination locks. However, a bank might have decided to mimic the new trend, to try and stay fashionable perhaps."

Erik suddenly rose to his feet, startling Christine. "I thank you for the lead, Daroga. Christine, let us go."

"But," she sputtered, leaping up and preparing to pull him back, "Erik, I do not wish to be rude."

Khan gave her a small smile. "I thank you for your concern, but I am rather used to the bluntness." He followed Erik to the door, giving the other man an assessing stare. "Give me a few days to dig around and see if I can discover which bank it belongs to before you do anything rash."

Erik dipped his head in acquiescence. When Khan offered a hand to shake, he studied it before placing his hand against the Persian's. Khan's grip tightened noticeably, and his other hand shot out to shove up the cuff of Erik's shirt, revealing a line of healing red at his wrist.

"Perhaps next time, friend, you will explain to me what happened to you."

Erik jerked his hand back, spinning away. "Christine, time to go."

Khan only looked a little sad. He removed his spectacles and tucked them back into a pocket. "Actually, go on ahead, Erik, and check to see that the path is clear. I would like a word with Mademoiselle Daaé alone."

Christine expected Erik to refuse immediately. She could tell from his stiffness that he was furious, but he only gave a straight-backed, rather mocking bow and swept out of the apartment. It spoke volumes about how the two men felt about each other, that Khan could make such demands of Erik and expect him to cooperate; that Erik would do so even if he did not agree.

Christine adjusted her cloak and muff, making it clear that she was ready to go as well. "What is it, Monsieur Khan?"

His brown eyes were warm and kind, but she did not let his outward friendliness knock her off her guard. This was a man who had not hesitated to pull a pistol on Erik earlier.

He sighed. "You told me you were with Erik willingly, but – and here, forgive me – if you need protection in any way, I am offering."

"Protection? From Erik?" She felt her face grow hot with her own surge of anger. "Your concern is unfounded and unwelcome."

"I can find you a place to stay," he continued. "If you do not have family, I can set you up in a women's group home until you find something more suitable. Erik has a past, a very messy past, and his temperament leaves something to be desired. I am only worried about your safety."

She glared at him. "I assure you that I am quite safe where I am. Erik has not hurt me in any way. In fact, from the moment I met him, he has done nothing but consider my comfort and protection. If he had not been there the night my father died-"

She cut herself off, feeling her emotions get the better of her. She had not come here tonight believing she would have to defend the man she had come to care about, and she had thought Nadir Khan was someone who could be trusted.

Swiping at her rush of tears, she shook a finger at the man. "Shame on you, Monsieur Khan. I thought you were his friend."

"I _am_ his friend!" he said with sudden heat. "However, he disappeared for almost two years without a word before knocking on my door in the middle of the night with you at his side. He bears the marks of cuffs on his wrists, and he is wearing that dreadful full mask – why is he choosing to cover his entire face? So yes, mademoiselle, he _is_ my friend, and as such, I am obligated to ensure that he does not do anything foolish."

Christine was stunned into silence. Then she drew a shaky breath. "He does not tell me everything, and some secrets are not mine to divest. But I do want to stay by his side, however long he will let me."

He took her shoulders, reminding her of her father for a moment. "I can see your temperament is a fine match for him. Very well. Have him contact Madame Giry, if he has not already, to tell her that he is back. She is a solid ally, and she can get you any supplies you might need."

Madame Giry? The ballet mistress at the Palais Garnier? Christine wanted to ask how Erik knew her, but Khan was gently pushing her toward the door.

"Out with you now, my dear, before he wraps that bit of catgut in his pocket around my neck."

She found Erik pacing upon long legs in the base of the stairwell. He growled something about how long she had taken, then strode off without waiting to see if she was following. She hated that her conversation with the Persian had driven a wedge between them, despite the fact that she had done nothing wrong.

Erik left her in the shadows of an alley, so he could unlock the grate that led back to the sewers, the sound of rushing water again meeting her ears. He lowered himself halfway down the ladder before motioning for her to come. He was as patient as he had been before, helping her move her skirts out of the way of her feet so she could climb, maintaining a solid presence behind her so she did not slip. But once they were both on the floor of the tunnel, and he had relocked the grate, he was off again without a word.

After they had walked for some time, Christine took a deep, beginning breath. "Did I do something to anger you?"

His yellow eyes remained trained straight ahead. "I suppose Daroga told you all about my sordid past, yes? You will be wanting to go as soon as you find a new place to stay."

"What? No, he didn't – that was not the point, I think." She picked up the front of her skirts to be able to keep up with his fierce pace. "He did ask if I wanted to go somewhere else, but I told him I was fine where I am."

"Fine."

"Maybe that is not the best word, but yes, I do not want to go anywhere else. I want to stay here." She hesitated, wishing she could have this discussion while trying not to fall into the murky stream in the middle of a sewer tunnel. "I think he was trying to protect me. And to protect you, for that matter." Now that she had spoken the words aloud, they seemed all the truer.

Erik snorted behind his mask. "He has always been a masterful meddler. However, if you wish to leave, mademoiselle, I will not stop you."

"Erik!"

But he was off, hurrying ahead of her to cut short their conversation. For a while, she focused on following the figure in front of her, dark shadow bleeding into shadow. Perhaps she should have been afraid, trudging beneath Paris with such a man. Perhaps she should have listened to Khan instead of her heart.

The walk back to Erik's underground home seemed to take less time, and soon, Erik paused outside the bolted door that led to his own passageway. They both stepped into the hallway, into the warmer corridors of Erik's home.

Neither of them spoke as they shed their cloaks and hats by the front entrance. Erik spent some time checking to ensure his mask was straight and smoothing back his hair with spidery hands. Not for the first time, she wondered at his thicker hair.

"One can lose track of the time down here," he said, bending to stoke the main fireplace in the sitting room. "If you need to know, there is a clock on the mantle. As it is the middle of the night, I suggest you sleep. We can discuss your placement in the morning." He moved past her into her room, lighting a candle within for her benefit, then bid her goodnight and went to his own room down the hall.

Oh, the stubbornness of that man! She wanted to hurl her lit candle at him, a book, her shoe – something to get him to actually pause and listen to her.

In her bedroom, she began to dress for bed. She laid her black mourning dress across a chair to prevent wrinkles and tucked her corset into the dresser, finding several others within as well. How Erik had come by these clothes, she had no idea, but he had been busy in the days she had spent asleep after Papa's death.

She washed her face and arms, unpinned her hair, and spent some time brushing out her curls. The scent from her bathwater still wafted up from her brown strands. Then she slipped between the blankets and willed sleep to come to her.

It did not.

Nadir Khan's words still spun through her head. He had been so convinced that Christine would want a different place to live, that Erik's company was somehow unsuitable to her. Even Erik believed that she would leave now that she had a way out. Had he even considered that she might feel quite differently?

That she might very much _want_ to stay by his side?

The house had been still since she had gone to bed, but she did not think much time had passed. She rose from her bed and shrugged into the pale blue wrapper she had found in the dresser, cinching it around her waist before stepping into matching slippers. The fire in the sitting room still blazed, but it was the only light in the house save from her candle.

She moved slowly lest the air extinguish her candle, finding her way past the kitchen to the hallway that led to Erik's bedroom. Down here, underground as she was, the darkness was more pervasive than any Christine had ever experienced. If her candle were to blow out, she would be surrounded by complete blackness.

Reaching Erik's door, she gave a soft knock upon the wood. "Erik, may I speak to you?" she called. When she received no answer, she huffed a sigh. "Please, it is important."

She debated on her next actions. The last time she had entered his bedroom without permission, she had caught him off guard with his mask half-off, and she had feared he would not forgive her for it. She pushed aside Khan's concerns about the full mask Erik wore; such thoughts could wait until a later time.

Her stomach roiled. He had not told her to stay away, had he? And she had given him ample time to respond.

The doorknob turned easily in her hand, and she opened the door enough to let herself through. The light of her candle barely touched the darkness that yawned into his bedroom, and the black that surrounded her seemed to press in around her. She thought she could make out the glowing embers of a fire dying in the hearth, but otherwise, her eyes could not find purchase on anything within the room.

"Erik?"

The door slammed closed behind her, causing her to yelp and jump back from it. She could feel the displacement of air at her side, and she caught a glimpse of pale fingers just before her candle was extinguished. The inky blackness flooded her senses. Her breathing turned harsh in her ears.

Then she heard his voice low and rumbling in her ear, thrown in her direction much like he had the first time they met.

"The songbird is stumbling around in the night. Lost, are you?"

"I-I am not lost." Her eyes struggled to adjust, but there was no light to help orient her. "I was looking for you."

"And you have found me. But you do not learn, do you, little bird. I had thought you would have had enough the last time."

She swallowed and tried to focus on keeping herself steady. "You are doing this thing you do, aren't you? When you try to scare me away. It did not work then, and it will not work now."

"No?" She felt an icy touch upon her neck, a deliberate slide of fingertips along her racing pulse.

Perhaps he meant to frighten her, but she only took the opportunity of his closeness to latch onto that hand, aware of how he hissed in a sharp breath. She spun around and threw her arms around his narrow hips, holding tightly so he could not escape without hurting her.

"Please, Erik, don't do this to me. Not again!" she cried into the soft linen of his shirt. "I cannot bear to be pushed away by you any longer."

His chest heaved beneath her cheek. "Daroga was right to protect you from me. My actions of the past can only reflect my future."

"I know so little about your past Erik, but what matters to me is how you have treated me _now_. You have listened to me, comforted me, been there for me when no one else was. You-you have understood my love of music and helped me reawaken my desire of it. You even saved my life!"

She felt the whisper of his hands upon her hair, touching but so lightly as though he were afraid she might notice. "Then I have bewitched you, little dove."

She shook her head fiercely, clutching his wiry frame. "If you are that through with me, if you want me to leave your home that badly, then you can just tell me. But please do not presume to know my own feelings, and please believe me when I say that I _want to stay here!_ "

He shuddered then, a rippling motion that traveled across him. Then she felt his hands pull her arms free of his waist, his strength too much for her to resist despite her effort to cling to him. "I do not deserve such kindness from you."

She looked up in the darkness that encompassed the space above her and wished she could see his eyes, the only way she knew how to read his expressions. She at least hung onto a fold of his coat, keeping herself grounded near him.

"None of us deserve what we get, Erik. But we take it all the same. Do… do _you_ want me to stay here?"

"More than I have ever wanted anything in this world."

Her heart soared at his confession. She wanted to throw herself against him, to embrace him, to show him that she felt so much that she was not certain yet how to put into words.

The rasp of movement in the dark, the slide of fabric against skin, and her ears strained to hear what her eyes could not see. He took one of her hands, his thumb smoothing the skin between knuckles and wrist.

Then she felt the cool press of something else against the back of her hand. She gasped aloud, felt him flinch and draw back.

"No, please," she said quickly, wanting to grab onto him but forcing herself to hold still. "I was only surprised. Would you… do that again?"

"If you wish," he murmured. And for the first time, she _felt_ his breath across her face, warm and alive and glorious.

"I-I do."

The touch returned to her hand, two thin lines of cool flesh that swiftly warmed against her own. He was kissing her, truly kissing her, in the manner a gentleman might a lady, and she had to lock her knees to keep them from shaking. His lips, for that was what they surely were, were dry to the touch, slightly damp where they parted the way lips might be, and she drank in every motion of them. Tenderly, he turned her hand over and those lips found the tendons in her wrist, and she bloomed with warmth.

All too soon, he pulled away, and she stepped closer to him, feeling his motions as he readjusted his mask, wanting the solid wall of his body against hers.

"I apologize for taking liberties," he said, not touching her further but not stepping back either.

She shook her head as though he could see it, and maybe he could. "No apologies necessary for something freely given and much wanted." Again, she thought about what Khan had said about his mask. For the first time, she desperately wanted to see him, or at least see the firm shape of his mouth, to be able to watch him as he kissed her hand.

"You should rest, my little bird."

She did not want to leave him, but lingering would only cause awkwardness between them. She murmured goodnight, and he left her to open his bedroom door, guiding her down the dark hall back to her own room.

When she did finally fall asleep, she dreamed of his lips upon her hand and wrist, and she woke up wondering what they would feel like if he pressed them to her own.


	12. Palais

**Chapter 12: Palais**

Christine laid in bed, her cheeks flushed in remembrance of last night. She had been replaying the event over and over in her mind. The sounds of his mask sliding free of his face, the warmth of his breath on her skin, and the touch of his lips intimately upon her wrist – she had committed it all to her memory. Every detail was precious, and within those details she found an agonizing truth within herself.

She had feelings for this man.

What those feelings were, she was not yet certain. She liked him – that fact was as real as any. She had liked him since he had first teased her with his voice in her ear, when he had helped her forget her woes. However, she had _liked_ Raoul too, and that infatuation had almost destroyed her in more ways than one.

No, _liked_ was not the word that she sought, yet she could not generate another that she was willing to entertain. In the very least, she enjoyed Erik's company, and she hoped he considered her a friend like she did him.

Piano music began to waft through the door, seeping through the cracks and stirring her further awake. The tempo was slow, the notes light and easy – the plinking of fingers not quite delving into a full melody. Erik played with the ivory keys the way Papa had once played with the violin, as one might coax lazy smoke rings from a pipe just for the joy of it.

Christine slid into her slippers and quickly buttoned up her wrapper before stepping into the sitting room. Her hair hung in loose curls down her back. The casual set of her attire was not appropriate for receiving a man, but then again, her very presence in the guest room of a man to whom she was not married was scandalous in and of itself. She shrugged off the impropriety and decided to enjoy a moment out from her mourning clothes.

Erik sat at the piano, his back to her, coat tails draped over the lip of the bench. It had not escaped her notice how much better he seemed to be doing now that he was free of his bonds. He took care with his appearance, his fine clothes smartly pressed and of higher quality than those he had worn in his prison.

She remembered the thin hair atop his head, but now thicker black hair was carefully combed – a stark contrast. Had he put on some kind of wig, and, if he had, why did he feel it necessary to put on such pretense with her? She had already witnessed him at one of his worst moments after he had been beaten, and he had seen her utterly crushed under the weight of her father's death. She had hoped they might become more comfortable with each other.

As she approached, his head turned slightly to the side, a single golden eye glancing at her over the long slope of his shoulder. She flushed a little at having been caught staring, but his voice sounded amused when he spoke.

"I thought I might be able to lure you out of your room with a bit of music."

"Indeed, you did, monsieur," she said, lightly teasing. She came to stand behind him and off to the side where she could watch his nimble hands work their magic on the keys.

He shifted into a fully-fledged melody that she quickly recognized as _Carmen's_ "Habanera." Although the song was usually upbeat and spry, he turned it into something much richer under his talented fingers.

She took the opportunity to study him further while he was focused on playing. The line lines of his body moved and shifted as he coaxed loose the gypsy's aria. Now that she was closer, the edge of his hair was more obvious, the shape a little too perfect in the glow of the candelabra perched nearby. She could see the thin bit of cord that held his mask tightly against his face.

The song ended, and he rested his hands upon his thighs, turning on the bench to face her. She could see the crease at the corners of his eyes visible until they vanished within the eyeholes of his mask – the upturn of his cheeks that signaled he was pleased.

"You recognize the aria?" he asked.

She nodded. "I have never seen _Carmen_ in person, but I have heard its music often enough, especially when Papa and I were traveling last summer."

"It has gained more appreciation in these past years, especially after Bizet's untimely end. It is said he died of heart complications, but perhaps the initial tepid reaction to his opera contributed." He paused. His head tilted to the side in that way she had come to fondly realize was him considering something deeply. "The Palais Garnier is making a passable attempt at bringing this opera back to Paris."

"Yes, they are." Christine vaguely recalled that she had told Erik of this some time before, but she thought about his comment. "Passable?"

He shrugged. "They are making effort, but they have been without artistic direction for some time now. In fact, I have been meaning to pay them a visit. Would you like to join me?"

"To the Palais Garnier?"

"Indeed. A house call, to be clear, as we will need to go after the show, but you can at least explore the grounds."

She smiled. "I would love to."

* * *

Without the sunlight to guide her, she realized her schedule was slowly sliding into one more suited to nocturnal activities. After her late night exploring the sewers of Paris, she had slept almost until luncheon.

Erik spent most of the day out, checking to ensure that even the far reaches of his domain were still intact after his extended time away, as he told her. Christine plinked at the piano or read, and when dinner time arrived, she had a fresh spread ready and waiting for him. Years of taking care of her father had at least taught her how to pull a meal together. Erik murmured thanks and took his to his room. She shoved aside her disappointment at having to eat alone. She knew why he did such a thing.

Finally, he came and stood at her side some time in the evening. "The caverns are always quite chilly, so I daresay you need your cloak."

She fetched her outerwear and joined him, her own mourning garb matching his usual black suit. The first time she had ridden in the small boat tied outside his home, she had been half-delirious with shock. Now, she took his firm hand and sat at the bow, eyes taking in the black depths that yawned around them, and the steady movements of the man pushing them across with assured strokes of the pole.

Once on the other side, he offered his gloved hand again. She relished the feel of those strong digits around hers, his grip steadying as they climbed stone steps and made their way through tight passageways.

She noticed when her feet began to fall upon a smoother surface. She looked down to see wooden planks beneath her shoes. Around Erik's shoulder, she could see the lantern casting a glow into a corridor that was more assuredly not a cave any longer.

Erik led her through a maze of passages barely wide enough for them to slip sideways through. From the exposed beams and pipes, they seemed to be between walls, hidden within an expansive building. Every so often, Erik would pause and hold up a silencing finger, appearing to listen before continuing onward.

Eventually, Christine began to hear music – that of a piano – and the sharp words of someone speaking.

"Where are we?" she asked, keeping her voice to a whisper.

Erik's eyes were as warm as the lantern's flame. "I suppose I should not hide this from you any longer. Come." He felt along a ridge and a panel opened. Christine found herself stepping into a small hallway decorated in soft velvet on the walls, the plush carpet the same shade of brilliant red.

"Not too close, lest you are seen," Erik said in her ear, letting her go before him. "It seems the ballet dancers are pulling a late rehearsal."

Indeed, as she followed the hallway to a narrow door, she peeked through the crack to see a formation of ballerinas on a stage.

A stage! She took a few more steps forward, her eyes growing wide as she recognized the sweeping rows of seats curving out before her. Her eyes traveled upward as far as she could see from her position, taking in the enormous stage and layers of balconies.

"The Palais Garnier!" she gasped, craning around to grin at Erik. "You live beneath the opera house!"

"I do." He stretched out a hand, beckoning her back to his side.

"Why did you not tell me sooner?" Especially after she had mentioned coming here several times.

He maneuvered the panel in the wall aside once again for them to return to the hidden passage. "I wanted to tell you, little bird. I thought you might take delight in such knowledge. However..." He paused, eyes sweeping away for a moment. "I needed a measure of confidence first. Few people know of my existence, and only one of those knows the actual path to my home."

"Monsieur Khan," she guessed.

He nodded. "Suspension and caution have allowed me to lurk in the shadows of this place for many years. I would like my anonymity to continue. You understand?"

"I do." From the stage, she could hear the strident tap of wood upon wood, and a familiar voice barking orders at the ballet girls. "Who else knows about you, if you do not mind me asking?"

"That is the reason for my visit." They made their way back into the secret corridors that spread throughout the opera house. "I have been an artistic consult for the managers here for quite some time. They have paid me for my expertise, and I need to see about reestablishing that professional relationship now that I have returned. I daresay their management would not have been as successful without my intervention."

They arrived at a narrow panel that allowed Christine to see clearly into what looked like an office with a partition to one side and a rack of costumes. Some kind of fitting room, perhaps?

"We have a bit of a wait," Erik said, hanging the lantern on a hook above their heads. "I apologize for the cramped conditions. I… have never brought someone along with me."

"It is quite all right."

Perhaps wandering between the walls of the Palais Garnier would have been strange to Christine weeks ago. But she had experienced enough at Erik's side to realize this sort of slinking within shadows was only normalcy to him. It was quickly becoming normal to her as well.

Still, it was dark, and thought of rats or spiders flitted through her mind. She let her hand snake around the crook of Erik's elbow. He jerked, but then to her delight, he brought his other hand up to rest atop hers. Together, they waited as casually as a couple might await the train.

Then the door opened, and Madame Giry entered the room. Christine recognized her immediately as the ballet mistress that Raoul had introduced her to during their odd visit to the opera house, that time so long ago. Madame Giry did not notice them standing right there, and Christine realized this must be some kind of trick glass. A two-way mirror.

A young girl, hair a pale blonde, followed her in. Meg, Christine recalled. "Maman, how much more can we possibly practice after performances before you are satisfied?"

Madame Giry turned on her daughter, hands gripping her cane. "Until the ballet in act two makes the papers as the reason to see _Carmen_ , not as the reason to avoid it."

" _Carmen_ only runs for two more weeks anyway." The girl was practically pouting.

"Which is two more weeks that we can practice!"

At Christine's side, Erik shifted, and she saw Madame Giry's eyes glance in their direction. He had just spoken in the woman's ear the same way he had often done Christine's.

Madame Giry waved a dismissive hand at Meg. "Change out of your costume so that we may return home and ice your feet. You will need your strength for rehearsal tomorrow. I will come get you when I am finished here."

Meg sighed but scurried out as commanded. The older woman followed her to the door and locked it behind her.

"Come in as you like, Monsieur le Fantôme," she said, turning to the desk.

The Phantom?

Madame Giry did not seem perturbed when Erik swung open the mirror and stepped into the room, nor when Christine followed him. The ballet mistress settled in the chair behind the desk and began to casually sort through correspondence there.

"I wondered when you might bring your guest to me," she said, casting a shrewd glance at Christine. "The girl cannot spend all of her time lurking about in the dark as you do."

Erik gave a sweeping bow that was both mocking and apologetic. "Christine, meet Madame Giry. Madame – this is Christine Daaé. Madame Giry has been most accommodating ever since I have had need of her assistance," he said to Christine.

Christine could not explain why she did not immediately tell Erik that the two women had met before, but she did not, instead inclining her head at Madame Giry. The older woman made no move to reveal that information either.

Erik turned back to the opening in the mirror. "I thought I might leave her here while I attend to Messieurs Firmin and André."

Her mouth turned down in a frown. "If you must, but be kind to them, will you? Their nerves are already frayed with La Carlotta threatening to quit once again."

"I shall do my best." He nodded a bow at Christine. "I leave you in good hands, mademoiselle."

Soon, the mirrored panel swung shut behind him, leaving Christine alone with the woman at the desk. Madame Giry spent the next moments slicing into envelopes and reading letters, then peered across her glasses at Christine.

"The last time I saw you, you were on the arm of a different man."

Christine flushed. She was rather startled by her own quick, visceral reaction. "M-My circumstances have changed dramatically since then, madame."

Giry paused in the middle of opening another letter, then set the items aside. She gestured to the other chair in the room. "Have a seat. You know, I did read about you in the newspapers, and I was saddened to hear about your father's death… again."

Christine settled into the chair, hands clasped tightly in her lap. "I did not understand why Raoul would lie to you, that first time we met, but his intentions were expressed only to himself. Forgive me, but I grow weary in having to explain myself to people who know nothing about me."

To her surprise, Madame Giry barked a short laugh. "Oh, I can see what he sees in you, if you speak to him in such a manner."

Christine guessed she spoke of Erik, and she felt her blush deepen. "I meant no disrespect."

"Nonsense." Giry raised a fine eyebrow. "You are far from the quiet girl I met before, and I am glad that you have found your voice. I trust your clothes are suitable? Our mutual friend could only give me a paltry idea of your sizes."

"More than suitable," Christine said with honesty. "Thank you for procuring everything I need. And on such short notice."

Giry waved a dismissive hand. "Erik has done much for this opera company. It is the least I could do for him, especially when he arrived in such distress."

"Distress, madame?"

The other woman rose from her chair and went to a pile of newspaper on a nearby shelf. There, she found a clipping and showed it to Christine, who found herself staring at a drawing of her own face and a headline proclaiming her missing.

"Of course," Giry said, "I knew of you before the newspapers spun this story about the abduction of the Vicomte's fiancée. Knew this to be lies to the press, but at least this has kept Monsieur le Vicomte away from the opera for now. When Erik came to me, I knew I would help him in any way I could. I have not seen him in such a state since the first time we met, though I could not dare to ask about his thinner frame nor his full mask."

Unlike Nadir Khan, Christine thought.

Giry eyed her shrewdly. "I suspect you know quite a lot yourself, but I will not ask you either. It is not my role to pry into his affairs, and he pays me quite well for my silence."

"I do thank you," Christine said sincerely, "for everything you have done for me and for him." She hesitated, then said, "You called him le Fantôme?"

"His chosen moniker. Even the managers call him the Opera Ghost, and he signs his letters to them as thus. I suspect they will be quite relieved to find that he has returned. _Carmen_ has been a disaster without his guidance, as were the three opera performed before this one. If it were not for the ballet performances between the major productions, the Palais Garnier would be bleeding funds."

Christine loved hearing about Erik's life prior to his imprisonment; anything she learned about him revealed more about who he truly was, after all. But Giry's words also reminded Christine how little she _did_ know about her companion, and how little he had chosen to tell her himself.

"I wish he trusted me more," she found herself saying aloud.

Madame Giry scoffed. "You are here, are you not? Bringing you here has been the ultimate act of trust in both you and in me. Though if you wish to leave, he _has_ asked me to aid you in perusing that option."

Christine's eyes burned with a sudden rush of tears. After yesterday, how could he still be thinking such a thing? It was all too much, dealing with so many mentions of Raoul and her prior life, and these glimpses that revealed more about the persona with whom she now lived.

She blinked, trying to hold back the tears. A touch on her hand, and she was startled to find Giry before her, her lined face softer.

"He did not tell me how you two met," Giry said gently. "Nor will I ask. However, it is clear to me that he cares about you in a way I have not seen from him. He has experienced kindness so little in his life that perhaps he is wary when he receives it."

"I would never want to hurt him."

Madame Giry patted her hand, then straightened. "I can see that. I must warn you though, _mon petit_. For those he decides to trust, there exists a certain responsibility. Even one moment of breaking that trust can dissolve your connection forever. What I am trying to say is this: he is a man who falls hard and breaks away even harder. Take care with him… and yourself."

Christine did not like the warning in her words, but she nodded, swallowing thickly. They spent the next moments discussing _Carmen_ , a safer topic until Erik returned. La Carlotta, the woman singing the titular role, could sing the part beautifully enough, but her attitude over the opera's material was spoiling the entire production. She did not like that she had to die onstage, and she had made certain that everyone knew it. Her complaining had even gotten the more controversial aspects of the opera cut altogether.

Erik opened the mirror and beckoned to Christine not much later. She bid Madame Giry adieu, and they were soon back within the walls of the Palais Garnier.

Although he took up the lantern again, he kept it burning low. For a while, Christine could hear voices of the ballet girls and musicians as they packed up and left for the night. Erik always seemed to know where anyone was lurking in the opera house, a step ahead of them, putting a silencing finger to his lips moments before anyone came near.

Erik took obvious delight in showing her how he moved within the building without being detected. He had a rather clever maze of passages and secret doors that he used. Often, his eyes would crinkle at the edges – that telltale sign that he might be grinning if she could see his mouth. Not once did she ever feel unease at being alone with him, sandwiched as she was between brick and stone and plaster.

When he was certain everyone had left – save a single nightguard with a predictable route – he took her to the stage.

Even though they were encased in darkness, she knew where they were. The firm wood beneath her feet, the empty space that stretched around her. The very air itself sighed in expectancy. Where else could they be with such open freedom of movement? And when he murmured "Wait here" with such amusement in his voice, oh, she knew.

She hummed a wordless note, felt the timbre reverberate away from her throat as though the stage pulled it away from her body and lifted it to the awaiting seats. Then a limelight beamed from the side of the stage house, illuminating her person and temporarily blinding her until her eyes adjusted.

Her thoughts spun. Here she stood on the world-famous opera stage of Paris, and she thought her heart would soar the way it had the first time she had seen this place. She thought she would feel called to do more than hum a note. Erik seemed to be waiting for her to do something, and yet she found she was simply frozen in place, her heart beating wildly.

Then footsteps sounded on the hollow wood near her, approaching, and Erik slid a gloved finger under her chin, turning her face away from the white glare of light.

"I thought you would be pleased," he said, eyes scanning over her face. "Instead, I have caused you distress."

She caught his hand and held it between both of her own, wishing their thin gloves did not separate them. "A-After my mother died, my father stopped playing his violin and sold his beloved instrument. For the longest time, I was furious with him. The things I said to him afterward! But… I realize now why he felt like he could no longer play without her."

"He was in mourning," Erik said. He fingered a bit of the crepe on her sleeve, the shade of the deepest black. "Is this why you will not sing?"

"I cannot. Not yet anyway, not until I feel ready to move on. My parents loved each other very much. Papa… Papa was in half-mourning for the rest of his life, forever wearing a band of black somewhere on his clothing." She squeezed his hand. "I just need time. I cannot imagine never singing again, after all."

He shifted his feet, head tilting as he considered her. "Perhaps, little bird, I could be your song for a time? Until you regain your own?"

She choked on a sob. "You would sing for me?"

"If you wish it." He hesitated. "It has been so long since I have done so, I would need to remove my mask for proper technique. I… do not want to do so here, in the open."

Squeezing his hand again, Christine walked to their lantern at the edge of the stage and picked it up. "Shall we go home then, monsieur?"

* * *

Later, she would try to recall the moment that happened next.

Upon returning to the house beneath the opera, they had both hung their cloaks and removed their hats and peeled off their gloves. The fire in the hearth, although now a dying red, still cast luminosity into the sitting room. It was too much light for Erik to remove his mask without her seeing, and her stomach did a nervous tumble at the thought of entering his bedroom again.

She hovered in the center of the room, unsure what to do, when Erik, eyes upon her, began to tug loose his cravat.

"W-What are you doing?" she asked, the question startled out of her.

He paused, long fingers entangled in the black silk at his throat. "For lack of options, I was going to blindfold you." His arms came down to dangle at his sides. "If you object, then we can simply wait until another, more convenient, time."

He seemed so uncertain, his posture tall and stiff, his voice blunt. To sing in front of someone meant to open yourself to their criticism. And he was not tying her hands down, so she could lift the blindfold at any moment. He was trusting her not to.

She offered a reassuring smile. "I truly want to hear you sing, Erik. I have ever since you told me that you could."

He did not reply, but he half-turned away and finished pulling his cravat free. Then he folded the silk so it formed a narrow band and walked behind her. She stood still as he looped the cravat around her head and bound her eyes, the silk tight and blinding but not uncomfortable.

"Back up, my little bird," he said.

She felt his hands guiding at her elbows until the piano bench pressed against the back of her skirts. She sat, and he returned to somewhere within the room.

Later, she would try to remember what happened next, the way his voice sounded when it began to flow from his throat. She did not recognize the song he sang, could not understand the words, but none of that mattered. She felt his voice vibrate throughout her entire being, felt it wrap around her heart and raise the fine hairs on her arms. He was standing before her, mask off, a crafting master of sound, in control of each movement within the song. She had never in her life heard something so beautiful.

She was not quite sure when she stood until she found herself on her feet. And she realized he was not so far away when he snapped his last note in half at her approach, startled by one of her hands reaching for his face. She wanted, oh she _wanted_ to know the man who could sing in such a way, to know him beyond the mask. It was only because she kept enough presence of mind that she did not rip off the blindfold then and there.

Her wrist was encased in a fierce grip, so tight that it hurt, his fingers grinding her delicate tendons against bone, his thumb catching the healing scrape on her palm.

" _No_ ," he hissed, his breath upon her face, and she heard the dry rasp of his cloth mask being swiftly replaced.

She tore off the blindfold with her other hand, only then realizing that she had been crying, the silk damp when she tossed it to the floor. The light from the fire was enough for her to see the warning in his eyes. He did not let go of her wrist, although his hold eased into something less painful. When she stepped toward him, his grip tightened again, but he did not hinder her as she raised her hand and cupped the fabric of his mask.

"Thank you," she said. "You did not have to do that, and yet you did – thank you so much, Erik."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "What a unique creature you are." He sounded out of breath, and before she knew what was happening, he had released her wrist, pivoted, and fled down the hall.

Haunted by the remembrance of his firm lips upon her skin, of the warmth of his breath, and of the knowledge of what might transpire between them should she follow, she let him go.


	13. Forward

**I apologize for the longer delay, but this chapter was too important to rush. Thank you so much for all of the reviews! They keep me going.**

* * *

 **Chapter 13: Forward**

The next days passed in some semblance of routine.

When she woke, Erik had fresh bread, cheese, and fruit ready for her to eat, sometimes even a pastry still hot from the oven. She had a hunch that he ventured into Paris in the early morning to fetch these items for her. After eating, she would dress and enjoy coffee, and then spend the morning reading while Erik played on the piano.

He had not sung to her again since the first time. While her heart ached to hear him again, she did not press. For now, it was enough to hear him spin melodies on the piano, to watch his fingers manipulate the keys in ways she had never heard before. On the third day, she even caught him scribbling musical notes on lined paper – a composition of his own.

In the evenings, he took her above.

She never thought she would become as familiar with the Palais Garnier as though the opera house itself were her home. The day guard left at eight o'clock, and the night watchman did not arrive until ten o'clock. For those two hours, Christine explored the grounds, her footsteps echoing on the marble floors, her lantern revealing elaborate paintings and gold-gilded trimmings. Erik taught her the best methods in and out of the walls – the hollow column in the east staircase, the mirror that turned in the circular room, the sliding panel in one of the dressing rooms.

He had made little move to touch her in the days proceeding. Besides his fingers folding around hers to help her out of the boat or guide her within the walls, Erik had avoided any sort of contact with her. Christine had begun to worry that she had somehow overstepped an unspoken boundary between them. That her attempt to touch his bare face after his singing had only propelled their relationship backward.

"Give him time," Madame Giry had advised her one evening. "I can easily see how taken he is with you. If he is sharing his music with you, then perhaps, in time, he will share more. If this is your wish?"

She did not admit to Giry then how her heart had begun to flutter whenever she was around Erik. Oh, it _was her wish_.

Erik was composing at the piano, and Christine was sitting by the fire and attempting not to take a peek at his notes, when a ringing sound pierced the otherwise quiet atmosphere. She looked at Erik, startled, but he only gave a long-suffering sigh.

"The alarm on my western entrance," he said. "We have either a visitor or an intruder."

"How will you know?" she asked.

A moment later, the noise ceased, leaving Christine's ears ringing. Erik scooted back from the piano and stood, crossing to the front door. "The wires for my traps are intentionally difficult to find. Our intruder must be the Daroga."

Christine stood as well, setting aside her book and smoothing out her black skirts. If Nadir Khan was here, then perhaps he had news about her father's key. Her stomach did a nervous churn.

Soon, Monsieur Khan was stamping wet shoes on the rug at the entrance and setting aside bags of provisions, so he could shrug out of his coat. He gave them both an appraising eye along with his greetings, no doubt passing judgement on Christine's state of being. Even though they had last parted on friendly terms, she still suspected both he and Madame Giry questioned why she was choosing to live down here.

"I see you have been busy," he said, nodding at Erik. "Many of your traps and alarms have been reset."

"For your sake, I hope you did not cut the wire this time," Erik replied.

The threat did not seem to bother Khan. "I merely disconnected it, Erik, so relax." He waved a hand at his squelching shoes. "Perhaps you could finally make a street-side entrance that does not involve having to tread water?"

"I suppose you are here for a reason?"

Khan pursed his lips but went over to the fire to warm himself and dry out. "I am. I have stalled in my search concerning Mademoiselle Daaé's key."

Christine's nervousness turned to dread. She gripped the back of the chair in which she had just been sitting. "Stalled?"

"I am afraid that is so," Khan said with obvious regret. "I have searched every bank in Paris, and no key set matches yours. I wonder if perhaps it opens a safe instead of a small vault, but that would make my job much more difficult."

Erik scoffed, folding his long arms. "Your job seems difficult enough. You said to give you a couple days, Daroga, but four have passed since you began your search. Perhaps your skills are lacking in this matter."

"What about outside of Paris?" Christine wondered. "You could widen your search to include the towns outside of the city. Papa was talking about moving us to St-Etienne as soon as he finished working out the details with Monsieur Martel. We even stopped once at his estate a few hours outside of Paris a few days before Papa started his job as groundskeeper."

"Monsieur Martel?" Khan frowned. "The chairman of Manufacture d'Armes?"

"Yes. He had offered Papa a new position at the warehouse in St-Etienne. Could the key belong to a bank there?" She knew at this point she was grasping onto any hope she could, but they could not search all of France to discover what the key unlocked.

"That is a possibility, but St-Etienne is a day's carriage ride away. I will need to get special permission to leave my post here."

"Doing this behind the gendarmerie's back, are you?" Erik said, eyes narrowed. "I suppose they have not been attempting to discover the truth behind the mess at MASE."

Christine saw Khan's face turn red at the jab. The Persian seemed like a man who was used to Erik's moods, which was likely why Erik was far more snappish with him than he was with her.

However, perhaps even the Daroga had a breaking point.

"I think the gendarmerie are closer to the truth than you would like, unless you can give me proof otherwise!" Khan stalked over to the bags he had brought, movements stiff with anger, and yanked out a folded newspaper. He tossed it onto the table near Erik. "It would be one thing if it were a penny paper reporting on drivel, but _Le Temps?_ The government itself takes notice on what _Le Temps_ publishes."

Even from her stance, Christine could read the headline: "Has the Strangler killed again?" The hairs on her arms rose, and for now, all thoughts of the key lying flat against her sternum were forgotten.

Erik glanced at the paper. "The Strangler? What a new epithet!"

" _Read it_ ," Khan all but snarled.

Coolly, Erik picked up the newspaper. His eyes flicked over the front page, rapidly taking in the article before settling back upon Khan. "And?"

"And I need an explanation, Erik. If I am to continue to cover for you, to _lie_ for you, then I need a full and truthful explanation of where you have been for the past two years."

"Or you will do what?" Erik spoke calmly enough, but the narrowing of his gaze, the sharpness in his tone, belayed the warning there. "I hear the unspoken counter to what your plan is if I refuse, but you have yet to tell me what will happen if I do. At least be clear about your intentions when you choose to give me an ultimatum."

Khan's anger abated as quickly as it had surged. His shoulders sagged, and he spread his hands before him. "I will have to tell the gendarmerie what I know."

Erik nodded, as if agreeing. "I thought as much." He half-turned to Christine while placing one of his hands inside his trouser pocket. "Perhaps it is best that you retire for now, Christine."

She was being dismissed. She did not understand why Erik fought against telling Khan that he had been imprisoned. The Persian already knew that Erik had killed those three men at MASE, and she had already pledged that he had done so in protection of her.

She had spent the past weeks nudging her way into Erik's life. And now he wanted to push her aside when it seemed he needed her most?

Ignoring Erik's suggestion, she walked to his side and took the paper, unhindered, from him. She quickly scanned the contents of the article, which contained detailed descriptions of men found murdered, by strangulation, throughout Paris some previous years before. The deaths of two of the three men at MASE matched the method.

Her hands trembled as she set the paper aside, but she balled them into fists and leveled her glare upon Erik. "I will not be cast aside," she said to him. "I have told you before that there must be truth between us, and I will not turn away now." She felt Khan's appraising eyes upon her but pointedly ignored him.

 _Let me stay by your side,_ she wanted to say to Erik. _For as long as you will have me_.

For a moment, she feared the man would flee, as he so often did when the situation turned too uncomfortable to bear. She hoped her eyes betrayed her open confidence in him. She hoped she had done enough to prove that she was willing to accept whatever he cast her way. Perhaps that combined with Erik's shared history with the Persian would be enough to keep him grounded.

Finally, Erik gave a mocking bow to Khan, then thrust his arms out before him, the movement causing his sleeves to pull up his wrists. The beginning edges of the healed bands around his wrists were now visible – the dark red skin there showcasing what might likely be long-lasting marks on his pale skin.

"I was chained for refusing to kill," he said to Khan. "I suppose that is my penance, yes? For all those times I did not refuse? Because at first, I terrorized those I was asked to terrorize, and stole from those I was asked to steal. And then, later, I was asked to kill, and so I did, a string of murders of men who had committed enough crimes of their own to justify the action."

Khan's brown face had paled, his lips pressed in a thin line, but he did not interrupt. Christine curled her arms against her torso as though that might shield her from Erik's words. She had thought – he had first told her that there had been no killing as part of his job. But it had been only later that he had refused?

"Eventually," Erik continued blandly, "I was asked to kill an innocent, and I declined. When I returned to collect my fee for my last theft, two of the men I killed – Leclair and Plamondon – were waiting for me with chains. They shot me in one of my legs, an injury that took me months to overcome, and attached my chains to the wall of my prison beneath MASE."

Khan spoke, voice quiet. "Is this where you met Mademoiselle Daaé?"

Christine laid a hand on Erik's arm, felt his muscles bunch under her touch. "It is. It was quite by accident that we met, but I can certainly confirm his story. I saw him chained there with my own eyes, and I witnessed those two men beat and-"

"That is enough, Christine," Erik said sharply. "We can spare Khan of the details."

She flushed, but Khan pardoned her any prolonged embarrassment by drawing the attention back to himself. "Why would you allow such a thing? Why even seek these men out? It seems quite beneath you to do their dirty business for him."

Erik flinched, a rippling up his back that Christine saw clearly from her vantage point at his side. All of this questioning was clearly taking its toll on the man. She opened her mouth to beseech Khan to stop his interrogation when Erik gave a low, dreadful chuckle. It was a sound full dark malevolence and completely devoid of humor.

" _Is_ it beneath me, Daroga? I find I fit quite nicely into the spaces beneath this city that haunts the nightmares of others. The jobs I was handed were so pitifully easy that at first, I took quite a lot of delight in how simple it was to steal from the Parisians and take whatever I wanted from them, even if it was their lives. I became a shadow that even my handlers feared, and for a while, _I_ had a purpose beyond giving observational notes to a pair of bungling managers."

"But you stopped," Christine said, voice clenched within her throat. Erik swung around, yellow eyes wide as though he had just remembered she was still there. "You stopped," she continued, "you said you r-refused when you were asked to kill an innocent."

His breath hitched. "Indeed, and instead, they began to use my reputation – and my face – for their own purposes."

Khan's eyebrows drew together. "Is that why you wear the full mask now?" He glanced at Christine. "I have never seen you wear a mask that covered your mouth."

"At first I wore it to conceal any hint to my identity." One of Erik's hands drifted to touch the smooth fabric that encased his mouth, fingertips feeling the lack of shape the mask gave that portion of his face. "Later, my captor insisted, as removing a full mask was more shocking than removing a partial. Now…" He jerked his hand away, eyes avoidant. "Now I cannot go back."

Erik missed Khan's expression, but Christine did not, and she nearly came apart at the sorrow she saw there. She knew Nadir Khan and Erik were longtime acquaintances, and now she had no doubt that Khan considered them closer still.

"Who did such a thing to you?" Khan murmured. "I need to know, Erik."

* * *

Christine found herself sitting alone in her room, a small candelabra burning next to her on her bedside table.

When Erik had asked her to leave a second time, Khan had joined in, adding an apology that did nothing to soothe her hurt. She had done everything she could to be trusted, had wanted desperately to earn Erik's faith in her ability to handle whatever came her way. However, she could see this time that the men's conversation would not progress with her there.

And so, she had obediently gone to her room and shut the door behind her, shut herself from the words they were no-doubt now exchanging. The book she had taken with her lay on her bed, forgotten. She simply sat in the single armchair next to her bed, and she waited.

Some time later, a knock tapped against her door, stirring her from her warring thoughts.

"Come in," she said.

The door swung open. Erik stood there, filling up the doorway, his coat discarded, his sleeves rolled to just beneath his elbows. Christine stared for a moment at the revealed swatches of pale, scarred skin, the red bands starkly contrasting.

Erik hesitated on the threshold, glancing at his own bare arms. "Daroga insisted on a medical exam, as it is his background. Always a meddler, that one."

She moistened her mouth with her tongue, then said, "Did he find anything wrong?"

"No lasting damage in my leg save yet another couple of scars. The rest of me, I am afraid, is only as erroneous as it ever is."

She was horrified by his flippant disregarded for his own self. "Erik-"

He cut off her protest: "I hold no illusions to the pleasantness of my company, nor the attractiveness of my exterior."

"That- that is not at all how _I_ think about you!"

The tears she had managed to hold back finally began to spill down her cheeks. At the sight, Erik stepped quickly into the room, a hand outstretched as though to wipe them. She thrust out her own hand to stop him.

"Don't you dare," she spat. "You cannot say such harsh words about yourself to me and then attempt to wipe away my tears when you caused them."

His eyes, golden in the firelight, widened. He stumbled the last paces that separated them, then sank to his knees before her. "I am a private person, Christine. I am not… in the habit of letting others intrude."

"Is that what I am? An intrusion?"

He shook his head. "I have tried every paramount attempt to avoid this very thing, and yet still, here you sit, those tears upon your cheeks. And I am powerless to understand _why_."

She could do no more than cry into her palms. She felt him finger the hem of her black skirt, then grasp it in his own shaking fist.

"Tell me to go, and I will," he said thickly. "Tell me to take you above to Giry, and I will. Tell me to remove my mask, and by all gods, _I will_ , and then you will truly want to be rid of me."

"That is not true!"

"It is, dear little bird. _Oh, it is_."

Christine struggled to calm herself, her heart beating wildly within her chest, the blood pounding in her ears. What could she do to reassure the man before her? She could strip him of his ultimate vulnerability – his mask – but she feared driving a wedge between them that could not be overcome.

She bent down and gently relaxed his grip from her dress, then brought his hand to her lap, stroking the bony knuckles. "M-Monsieur Khan said that you used to wear a mask that revealed your mouth, did he not? If it is too much to let me see, would you let me feel?"

Taking a steadying breath, she brought his hand to her face and cupped her damp cheek with his broad palm. His eyes tracked the movement with fervent attention. When she turned her head to kiss the fleshy rise of his palm below his thumb, he shuddered violently.

"Show me," she said, holding tightly to his hand lest he try to pull away. "Show me what I may touch."

Then she twisted and picked up her candle-snuffer with her other hand. Slowly, giving him time to protest, she extinguished the candle flames one by one, gradually tossing them dimmer light until they were in solidified darkness.

With his hand still cupping her cheek, she mirrored the gesture by reaching out until her fingertips met the thick fabric encasing the right side of his face.

"Are… you certain you want to pursue this, little bird?"

"I have never been more certain," she answered. "Show me."

His hand, heavy with purpose, lifted from her cheek until only his fingertips touched her hairline near her ear. She mimicked the motion, tucking her own fingers along the edge of his mask. Then he ran his fingers along her hairline from ear to opposite ear, his touch so light that she shivered. She followed, taking in the thickness of his mask, the exacting line of his hair. Ever so often, she could feel the ridges of something in his hair, and once she reached his other ear, she knew.

"You wear a wig," she said softly.

"Yes."

She thumbed the hair combed neatly over his ear. "You didn't when we first met, not until we came here."

"I did… before. I usually have."

She understood – the wig was a typical addition to his appearance, and not something he had merely added for her benefit. For whatever reason, and she would not pry, he had not had one while imprisoned.

She waited with utmost patience for him to move his hand again. He finally did, trailing his fingers past her ear and along the curve of her jaw. She did the same to him, realizing he was mapping the edges of his mask, and focused on the feel of his skin beneath her fingertips, the smoothness mixed with rougher patches that sometimes intersected.

They both met on the starting side of their faces. Christine realized she had been holding her breath, and she let it out slowly, wanting to stay calm. For an eternity, he did not move. Then she felt him shift, and his thumb swiped upward, across the bottom half of her cheek.

She did the same with her thumb, expecting to encounter mask. Instead, her thumb met the bare skin of his face, the texture here that same evenness entangled with raised, twisted flesh. His thumb smoothed over her chin, and she found his jaw was as strong as she had thought, his chin angular but not overly pronounced.

She could feel his breath warm against her skin, the sensation as intimate as the first time she had felt it, when he had pressed his lips to her hand. _More,_ her mind buzzed, but she could not break his conviction that her hand would not stray.

"May I?" he asked, and she reveled in the sound of his voice, unmuffled as it was.

She did not wait to find out what he was asking permission to do. "Yes."

His thumb, heated by her own fevered skin, swiped across the bottom curve of her lip. She gasped at the touch, the parting of her lips bringing him in firmer contact, and she was very much aware of the territory into which she was spiraling. Readily, she did not falter. Her thumb found the edge of his bottom lip, the hardened edge different than her own plump, giving surface. Different, but not unwelcome, and she did as he had done, tracing the long line of his mouth with her thumb and finding the lip firm but not covered in the mangled flesh of earlier.

"You have a mouth, after all," she said. She tried to keep her tone flippant, but she was well aware of his own thumb still pressed against the side of her mouth.

To her delight, she _felt_ that line of lip tilt upward at the corner in what could only be the hint of a smile. Her own lips curved up as well, jubilant.

He returned to exploring the bottom portion of her face, retracing earlier paths, and she matched him in turn. Suddenly, she was reminded of her last time with Raoul, when he had also swiped his thumb across her lips. But while that time had sent her worrying about propriety, about where it all might lead, she had no such misgivings with Erik.

Wherever this might lead, she was willingly not hesitating down that path.

In this give and take between them, this space of questioning and granting permission, she wanted more. And before she could lose her courage or worry about his reaction, she used her fingers to guide her in the darkness.

She touched her lips to his.

Her upper lip bumped the edge of his mask – he had only slid it to expose his mouth and not removed it entirely. She felt the hitch in his breath, and she feared he would pull away.

Instead, he held utterly still.

Trying again, she pressed a kiss to his thin lips but still encountered no reaction. Pulling back, she took his hand, which had fallen from her face when she moved. Those lithe fingers trembled, and she squeezed them.

"I-I apologize, Erik."

"You kissed me." His words floated into the narrow space between them.

"Yes." She did her best to hold herself together. "I wanted to. I have wanted to for a while, I think. Was… was it dreadful?" She had only kissed one other person, after all, and she had not exactly wanted it then.

"The opposite of that," he said, sounding overcome. "The opposite of dreadful. How could you even commence with describing yourself with such a word?"

She gave a soft, relieved laugh. "All right, then. Would it be acceptable if I did it again?"

" _Acceptable_ , she says!" And his breath was closer now, his voice rumbling across the short stretch of black space between them.

She touched the pads of her fingers to his jaw and blindly guided her mouth back to his. This time, his lips moved against hers, slow and seeking, tentative but fervent in their adoration of her. For a moment, it was only the soft sound of lips pressing to lips and the gloriously inelegant movements of two inexperienced people. She committed to memory the feel of those firm lines of flesh, and she felt her heart constrict in a way that she knew went deeper than mere affection.

When they parted again, Erik brought her knuckles to his mouth. Then she heard the sliding of cloth against skin, and she knew he had replaced his mask.

For a while, he did nothing more than kneel at her feet, his hands clasping hers. When he found his voice, she marveled at the tone of it. "Oh my sweet songbird!"

She was certain her face was aflame, and she was thankful for the dark to hide her flush. She did not know how to reply, the moment beautiful and awkward and everything she had wanted it to be.

She realized he was still on his knees before her. "Please," she said, "do not kneel on the floor so. You do not have to."

"My height," he said, sounding breathless. "I am less imposing this way, yes?"

Christine remembered the way the guards had made him sit before they had beaten him. Erik was so tall that he could tower over most men without trying, but she never wanted him to feel like he had to make himself small before her. That he had to submit by going to his knees.

"Come," he said, rising as he pulled her to her own feet. He led her back into the sitting room, speaking while her eyes adjusted to the surge of light. "I promised Giry I would come to the opera today. They are previewing their next lead production, which will premier next month. Would you join me?"

She hesitated, then swept a hand down at her black crepe-trimmed garb. "I am in full mourning, and venturing out to public events is usually discouraged, isn't it?"

He gave her hand a squeeze, such a natural, caring gesture that made her want to kiss him again. "I am not much for following such rules of society, but if you wish to go, we can ensure that you are not seen." When she still wavered in indecision, he added, "Perhaps only for the preview?"

"Only for the preview," she agreed. Truthfully, she was eager to catch at least a small glimpse of the theater filled with people, of the performers lit under the stage lights. And to do so at Erik's side would lift her spirits even more so.

They spent the rest of their evening in their usual routine – Christine with her book and Erik at his piano. However, both of them seemed distracted. More than once, Christine would glance up from her book to see Erik's yellow eyes gazing at her from across the room. Even though his fingers tapped upon the ivory keys, she could sense that he was not much focused upon his music. Nor was she upon her book, her fingers tempted to swipe across her lips as she remembered the feel of Erik's upon hers.

She was glad for the distraction of the opera when it came time to venture above. Erik's hand around hers seemed even more natural than before, his palm and fingers fitting around hers like they had always belonged. Mostly in silence, they made their way up each set of stairs and winding paths, but there was a comfortable agreement between them that they were both still processing what had happened earlier.

The crooning of the lead singers and the ringing of the chorus met her ears before she and Erik slid between panels into the deep shadows of Box Five. She pushed aside her veil for now, the transparent panel blocking too much of her vision in this low light. Erik stayed in the farthest recesses of the small hall at the back of the box, but he gave her a nudge toward a plush scarlet armchair just on the edge of the light.

Erik had timed their arrival well. While Christine had never seen _Carmen_ , she was well aware of its music and provocative ending. On stage, Carmen and José were arguing, and within ten minutes, Carmen had been stabbed in a jealous rage. Even though la Carlotta's acting left much to be desired, she portrayed Carmen's scorn of José with active glee.

The performers began to bow to the applause of the crowd. "And now," Erik said in her ear, "they will take a short break before the preview. I wish to leave a letter for Madame Giry to find. Would you stay here until I return? I should be back before the performance begins."

She gave him a smile over her shoulder, though she could not see him in the darkened house lights. "Of course."

She heard him slip away, and she refocused her attention back on the stage. The two principal leads were now taking their bows, and soon, the heavy red curtain was drawing closed. Throughout the auditorium, lamps were being turned up, casting the thousands of opera-goers into a hazy light.

Because of her position deeper into Box Five, Christine could not see those in the boxes next to her or down below. So instead, she scanned the men and women who occupied the boxes across the orchestra. She admired their finery, especially the elegant gowns of the ladies, and the carefree way they appeared to be living their lives.

In the boxes closest the stage, she studied the faces to find the two managers – Firmin and André. Erik had once pointed them out to her while showing how he entered their office to terrorize them into submission. One tall and one short, in a crowded box of well-dressed nobles, they were rather easy to notice.

But once Christine located them, her attention became locked on one of the men seated between them. The man was laughing, clapping Firmin on the shoulder, and he was unmistakable even at this distance.

It was Raoul.


	14. Decision

**Chapter 14:** Decision

The last time Christine saw Raoul, he had given her a bag of coin after their dinner as though paying for the pleasure of her company. Since then, she had lost her father at the hands of one of _his_ men, heard how he had lied about being her fiancée, and wondered what she would say if she ever saw him again.

And there he sat across the wide expanse of the orchestra pit, and all she could do was remain motionless in her chair as though she had grown roots.

She remembered the way Erik had reacted when she had mentioned her connection to Raoul. The night her father died, she had admitted that Raoul had been the one she had seen the night she returned so upset. Immediately, Erik had made her promise to leave Paris. In fact, she had been on her way to urge her father to pack when Raoul's men had shown up at their doorstep.

Since then, Christine had feared what Erik knew about the Vicomte that she did not.

She sat, stunned, though she should not have been so surprised. Of course, she should have suspected Raoul might come here. She should have known this was a possibility.

"Christine?"

Erik's voice in her ear made her suck in a breath as though she had been struggling to draw air into her lungs. However, she could not take her eyes off the blonde man animatedly gesturing at the stage. Even among all of these well-dressed nobles, he stood out.

But Erik – he should not see the Vicomte lest he react badly. She tried to make herself jerk away, to wrench her eyes to the shadows behind her. However, it was too late. At her back, Erik had followed her line of sight.

"The Vicomte," he hissed.

So, Erik _did_ know who Raoul was. She did not know how, but her suspicion was confirmed. Aware that her eyes must be huge, Christine finally swung around in her seat. Erik stood a few paces behind her, hanging back from the glow of the house lights, his eyes ablaze with naked rage.

"I only just saw him," she said softly.

"He is here… in _my_ theatre."

"Yes." She glanced back at Raoul, then made herself look away, the sight and the memories too painful. "Do you want to go?" Perhaps it would be best if they simply left. She did not know what she would say to her old friend – not now.

Erik fished a length of catgut from his pocket and held it affixed tightly between his fists. "I want to kill him."

"Erik!" She had to keep her voice down so no one would hear them. The other patrons were busy with their own conversations, but soon, the preview would be starting below on the stage.

The urge to simply flee from the sight of Raoul rose within her. She scooted out of her chair in such a way as to avoid stepping into view of the auditorium. Erik did not look at her as she approached, eyes still fixated upon the unaware man.

"That would not be wise, would it?" she said, trying to place herself in a position to distract him. "Not here at least, right? The Garnier does not need that kind of publicity." If she appealed to his sense of music, then perhaps she could persuade him to let this go. Truthfully, Erik's quick and visceral reaction had frightened her – and she did not understand the root of it.

Sucking in a steadying breath, she put her hand atop one of his fists. "Please, may we leave? You can take me to one of the practices later to see the production, right?"

He only nodded, but at least it was a response. The bit of cord was tucked back into his pocket, and then he turned on his heel and swung open the panel for them to exit. Once they were both back within the walls of the opera house, he latched onto their lantern and made his way upon swift feet, leaving Christine scrambling to pick up her skirts and follow.

Something was wrong. She could see his jaw clenched alongside the bottom of his mask. He kept the tall line of his back to her as they made their way down the tunnels. Finally, after they had stepped from the fifth cellar and into the cavern itself, she could stand the silence no longer.

"Erik? Are you angry with me?"

He swung around on her, causing her to lurch a step backward. The lantern's flame cast his yellow eyes into hooded shadow. "Did you know?"

She did _not_ want her lip to tremble! "Did I know what?"

"That he would be there?" he clarified, swinging a fuming arm, cape snapping out like the wing of a bat.

"How could I have known that? I have had no contact with him since before Papa died!" When he only stared at her, she folded her arms, hugging herself. "Perhaps I should have known he might come here tonight for the preview. He became patron of the opera not long ago."

"Patron!" Erik snarled the word. "Perhaps this is something you should have told me, yes?"

She glared up at him. "Why? Because I need to tell you every detail about every life experience I have ever had? How could I have known the importance of such information?"

"Yes, how could you." He whirled away again, leading them further into the winding maze of paths and staircases.

Tears flushed hot behind her eyes, but she bit her lip, focusing on the sting to hold back her hurt. She had done nothing wrong, nothing to deserve such treatment from him. For a moment, she considered refusing to follow him to his home. What would he do if she said she was going to spend the night with the Girys instead?

But she remembered the feel of his lips against hers, the tender way he had traced the outer shape of her face. She swallowed down her pride and continued downward until they reached the front door of his underground home.

Erik swept right in. She saw immediately how this could unfold, how he could rush off to his bedroom and shut her out. He did so often try to run away when the situation grew too uncomfortable for him to tolerate.

 _"He is here… in_ my _theatre,"_ he had said, as though possessive of the entire building. Afterward, he had demanded to know if she known Raoul would be there that night, if she had been expecting him. He seemed more infuriated by the fact that she had possessed the knowledge of Raoul's patronage than of his actual presence.

No, Erik was not possessive of the Palais Garnier. He was possessive of _her_.

She unfastened her cloak and hung it adjacent to his. Then, to his retreating back, she said, "I should have told you he had become a patron."

He paused, head tilting every so slightly in her direction.

"I suppose," she continued, "I was worried about how you would react. And I did not trust that you would understand how I feel about him."

"How you feel about your Vicomte." His distaste was evident, but underneath that, she heard the thickness to his voice, the barely-restrained sorrow.

Christine frowned at his phrasing. "My Vicomte? He has not been _my_ Vicomte since the night I came to you after going to his home." She rubbed her forearm, remembering the way Raoul had treated her, the way he had made her feel. After the years they had known each other, he had undone everything between them with that dinner. "I truly doubt he ever was."

Erik turned, hands balled into fists. "You dare tell me there was never anything between you? That you never- that you never pressed yourself against him-"

"He took advantage of my confidence in him!" she cried, those hated tears blurring her vision. "I thought there might be a future with him – yes, I did! Yet never did he give me a reason to believe such a thing was possible." She hated to say such things aloud, the truth that she had kept inside herself. "I was so naïve, so pitifully young, that I did not understand the signs that his intentions with me lay elsewhere."

On long, stiff legs, Erik crossed the distance between them, golden eyes staring down at her from his great height. She thought about what he had said only earlier that day, about how he knelt to avoid causing discomfort due to his height, and now he was clearly using it to his advantage. His sudden closeness caused the scent of him – herbs and cedar and something entirely Erik – to waft through the air toward her.

"Do you wish you were with him now?" he demanded to know, teeth grinding.

"No!"

"Do you love him?"

A dull ache in her gut, to be asked so bluntly. But her answer came without hesitation:

"I do not love him."

Still, he did not seem satisfied. He paced before her, then drew up close once again. "I will not be a mere replacement, Christine, for this idea you thought you had."

She hiccupped a sob. "I never intended for you to be! There was never anything between Raoul and I, never anything but the shadows of a life I thought I wanted. All of that has changed." She scrubbed angrily at her eyes, then tilted her chin up to return his fierce glare. "And if you would take off that stupid mask and kiss me, you would understand that!"

He seized her upper arms in his fists. "Kiss you!" His voice cracked on the first word and sounded suffocated on the second.

He advanced, causing her to stumble backward, held up only by his brutal hold on her. More than once, she stumbled upon the thick train of her black gown. She realized they were in her room when he shoved her through the doorway, the light of the sitting room casting their shadows long against the far wall.

She spun on him. "Release me at once."

He ignored her demand, slamming her bedroom door closed and throwing them into darkness. "Tell me what you want, little songbird," he rasped. "Tell me _who_ you want."

"I do not want Raoul!" she cried, grabbing onto the linen folds of his jacket. "I want _you!_ "

Erik pushed her up against the wood with a thud. Then his lips were upon hers, the edge of his mask scraping her nose, but she did not care. He kissed her with firm lips, the first pass nearly drawing blood as teeth scraped tender skin until he adjusted his angle, bringing their mouths together in a deep, soul-wrenching kiss. His lips plundered hers again and again until he had to break way for air, leaving them both gasping.

Christine sucked in several deep breaths, then yanked him back to her. She threw her arms around his chest and held him close as their mouths connected again. The wood of the door dug into her upper back, but she clung to him, reveling in the feeling of the sharp points of his body digging into hers. His arms crushed around her, embracing, possessive. Then his fingers dug into the sides of her waist, pulling her hips toward his, which rolled against her.

She broke away to gasp a cry – not of pain, but a sound foreign to her own ears, a cry of desire that seemed to startle them both. Erik stepped back, removing himself entirely of her in the encompassing darkness.

"No, come back," she pleaded.

He did, first with trembling hands that settled upon her waist, this time not so insistent. She smoothed her palms down the rumbled front of his shirt. When she allowed her hands to travel up his neck, she found he had pulled his mask back to cover his mouth. She let out a whimper of displeasure at the barrier.

"Kiss me again," she said.

"You… want this between us?" he asked. He took one of her hands and slid it between mask and skin, his lips heated by their earlier embrace.

"I do, Erik."

She lifted her hand, her knuckles pushing up his mask just enough so she could press a kiss to his lips. This time, when he responded, their mouths caressed in gentle glides across each other, soothing the assault of earlier. Christine had little experience in this matter, and she doubted Erik did either, and so she took her time exploring how to press and move her lips, how to tilt her face to drive them closer.

They parted again. His thumbs smoothed away the tears coursing down her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around him and everything eased from her when he hugged her in turn. Her cheek against his sternum, they stayed that way until both of their heartbeats had slowed, until she grew steadier on her feet.

She had to ask. "You want this too, right?"

He chuffed somewhere above her head. "Since the moment you climbed through my window."

* * *

Two days later, Christine sat in Madame Giry's small office. She squirmed under the older woman's assessing gaze and nibbled on a bit of bread from their luncheon.

"You have a flush about your cheeks that was not there before," Madame Giry said, giving the papers on her desk a sharp tap as she straightened them. "I suspect things have been going well between you and the maestro?"

"Y-yes," Christine stammered. "I… oh, sometimes I am not certain what to think! But yes, I believe they are. We exchanged our feelings for one another, at least somewhat. And we, ah, kissed." And here she blushed even harder.

Giry gave her a sharp look. "Then you have seen under the mask?"

Christine looked down at her folded hands. "Not exactly. But I am confident that he will trust me with that given more time." A thought occurred to her. "Have you seen?"

"Heavens no, though I know the Persian has. I would never press him to reveal such a thing, in any case. Sometimes that which is hidden is best left untouched. I am not as curious as you, my dear."

"I am only a little curious," Christine admitted. "I simply want us to become more comfortable with each other. It has been a few days, and he still jumps whenever I put my hand on his arm." She hesitated, not wanting to speak so flippantly about such personal matters. However, she had no one else to discuss these things with.

"You have only begun," Madame Giry said. "Even among those with typical lives, matters of the heart take their time."

A knock upon the door, and it swung open quickly without waiting for a reply. Nadir Khan stepped inside the office, sweat upon his brow, carrying a stack of papers under his arm.

Madame Giry looked at him coolly. "Are you in the habit of barging in uninvited, Monsieur Khan?"

At least he had the sense to look abashed. "I am afraid so, madame. A bad habit I have picked up from our mutual friend." He looked over at Christine. "I have already been to your home, but I saw that no one was there." He meant he had found the dingy on the opposite end of the shore, indicating that Erik, at least, had left the underground abode.

Christine shook her head. "You will not find Erik here. He is composing most of today, and I decided to give him time without me hovering over his shoulder. I am spending the day with Madame Giry."

That was the gist of it. Erik had not exactly _asked_ her to leave, but he had thrown himself into his music in such a way that she had not seen. While the sight thrilled her, she could tell that he would be bent over his piano and scribbling upon his parchment for hours. Madame Giry had the day free from rehearsal since the preview had aired, and her tasks mostly consisted of jotting down ideas for the ballet portions of the next opera.

Khan let out a frustrated sigh. "I should tell both of you this directly, but I do have news to share." He glanced at Madame Giry, clearly unsure if she should be included in this conversation.

"Go ahead," Christine said. "She knows about the key. And about my father's murder."

Whatever was causing Khan's nervousness also seemed to have made him paranoid. He angled back to look up and down the hallway, then ducked inside the room and shut the door behind him. Then he hefted his pile of papers onto Madame Giry's desk and sorted through them until he found the one he sought.

A bank's name was printed in fine script at the top. Christine glanced at it, saw the address, then looked questioningly up at Khan. "You… found the bank?"

"Indeed, I did." The Persian tapped a finger against the bottom portion of the document. "Your tip about Saint-Etienne proved fruitful after all. Monsieur Martel does indeed own an estate along the road to the town. I traveled toward his chateau, which lies on the northern border of the Forest of Fontainebleau. It took me most of the day, but I found that one of the largest Parisian banks has a branch there."

"And that bank has vaults with this key?"

"It does. I was able to see keys similar to yours, and the numbers stamped on the sides match."

Christine pressed a hand to her chest and felt the dig of warm metal that rested there. After all of this time, all of this wondering, she could finally discover what this key opened. Maybe she would finally understand why her father had given it to her to keep safe.

"When can we go?" she asked.

Khan's nervousness had not abated. He brought out a handkerchief to mop his forehead. "Perhaps it is best that Erik is not here right now."

Madame Giry snorted. "Out with it, monsieur. There is no need for such dramatics."

"I have not managed to live this long without a strong sense of caution, madame," Khan replied with some tartness. "When you have seen the things I have seen, you learn to analyze the signs of trouble whenever they arise." He cleared his throat. "Your father has been formally laid to rest at Montmartre Cemetery."

Christine heart had lifted at the news of the key, but certainly, she had only needed the Persian to investigate because of Papa's death. Even though almost two weeks had passed, she still felt echoes of her past life with him. Sometimes she woke in the morning forgetting that he was gone, spending the first hazy moments between awake and sleep thinking she would soon hear his voice calling out that he was headed to work.

Her newly-developed feelings for Erik had been a welcome distraction, but she could not forget the reason she was even here in this room, having this conversation with a ballet mistress and a Persian detective. Her father, Charles, had been murdered, and now his body resided in a tomb for which Erik had paid.

"Mademoiselle?"

Christine shook her head to clear it and looked at Khan. "I thought he had been buried last week?"

"He had, as soon as the gendarmerie released his body. But his memorial has only now been finished, his name engraved on the marble. A small ceremony was held for him yesterday."

"I wish I had been told," she said, throat closing. "I would have liked to have gone."

Khan gave her a sad sort of smile. "I know that, as did Erik. However, we both decided it was still too dangerous. Until we see what the key unlocks, until we know more about _why_ your father was killed, we cannot have you recognized in public. Anyone wanting to find you undoubtedly might have gone to the ceremony to see if you were there."

 _Dangerous. Why he was killed_. Was she to spend the rest of her life underground, afraid of what might happen were she found? She was not even sure why _she_ was in danger herself!

"The ceremony, while small, was lovely. A Lutheran priest presided over reading his last rites." He hesitated. "A few people came to pay their respects. Among them was the Vicomte de Chagny."

"Raoul was there?"

Khan nodded. "He spoke with the priest and thanked him for coming. Truly, he stayed no more than ten minutes, but the fact that he came seemed notable."

Raoul had gone to Papa's grave! Had he been looking for her or simply saying goodbye to her father? Christine thought about seeing him at the opera two days ago, about how he had told the newspapers that she was his fiancée, about how he said she had been kidnapped. Was he so worried about her that he had not given up finding her?

They had parted on such terrible terms, but never had she told him that she did not want to see him again. She never had the opportunity to gather her courage and explain how uncomfortable he had made her, how cheap his money had caused her to feel.

There was so much that had been left unsaid between them.

"You find his actions suspicious," she said with sudden realization. "Is this why you are so nervous? Are you afraid of how Erik will act when he finds out Raoul was there?"

Madame Giry cleared her throat. "Erik came to me yesterday and asked if there was any way to terminate the Vicomte's patronage with the Palais Garnier. I told him he had to take up that issue with the managers." She gave Christine a sharp look. "Does this have anything to do with that day the Vicomte brought you here inquiring about you joining the ballet?"

"I have not told Erik about that," Christine admitted. "He already detests Raoul for his treatment of me. I did not want to give more reasons to hate him."

"Why?"

Her eyes widened, as startled as if Giry had pulled the chair out from under her. Such a simple question, and yet she found she could not justify her reasoning with an answer. Finally, she drew in a breath and said, "I have such a long history with Raoul. We were friends long before I came to Paris." She went from unsure to aggravated. "When Erik saw Raoul at the premier, he said he wanted to kill him. Erik does not need any more justification."

And neither did she for what she had decided to do.

"If you are so suspicious of Raoul," she told the Persian, "then go on and tell Erik. I will not stop you."

He sighed heavily. "Either the Vicomte went to your father's funeral for insidious reasons or he simply went due to his affection for you. No matter the reason, he still has you in his thoughts. And Erik said the Vicomte mentioned the key to you. Therefore, he is connected."

She waved a contemptuous hand. "Then go tell Erik." Christine folded her arms, done with this conversation.

Khan scooped up his papers and moved to the door. "I do not relish giving him this news. Be glad that you are here, mademoiselle! Afterward, I will head to arrange transport for us to go to the bank tomorrow morning."

As the Persian left the room, Christine's thoughts were spinning. She was well aware of Madame Giry's stare leveled upon her, but she pointedly kept her own eyes on the floor. There were so many questions to which she had no answers. If Monsieur Khan had said they would leave at that moment to go to the bank, perhaps Christine would have been able to hold onto her patience. If Madame Giry had asked her then what her mind was considering, saying the words aloud might have stopped her.

However, Christine was given too much time to think. In those few minutes that passed while Giry turned her attention back to her choreography notes, Christine was seized with a desperation to simply _understand_.

She stood, drawing the ballet mistress's attention back to her. "Madame, I need to write a letter."

* * *

Christine had been given little opportunity to wander the halls of the Palais Garnier on her own. She did so now on this late afternoon, the grounds empty due to the rare day of rest for the troupe. There was no guard to bother her yet, and Madame Giry had waved her off so she could focus upon her work blocking the upcoming production.

Christine's footsteps echoed upon the shining, smooth floors. She watched the way her black-encased figure cast long shadows upon the smooth white marble, the sun low on the horizon.

Soon, Erik would come for her.

She had to be gone before then.

When the sun dipped too low to beam crisp rays of light into the opera house's windows, Christine pulled her hood over her hair. She thrust out a stiff arm, placed her hand upon a door, and pushed her way outside.

Parisians meandered the streets around the Palais Garnier. Christine was able to dip into a place among them. Her mourning garb made her stand out more than she would like, but at least her short veil hid her face from all but the most prying eyes. She focused upon putting one foot in front of the other, and soon, she reached the small public garden with the high walls and gate that blocked the public's view.

Dusk was quickly bleeding into a chilly night. Christine entered the garden and found a clearing within to wait. The bare trees rose gnarled branches into the darkening sky. Her breath painted white wisps before her face. A streetlight just beyond the tiny park began to glow.

The gate creaked open. Turning, she saw the well-dressed figure walk toward her, the gloved fingers stabbing through blonde locks falling across his youthful face. Bright blue eyes alighted upon her. She saw the flash of white teeth as he grinned.

"I have found you at last, little Lotte."


	15. Revealed

**This is a chapter I have known about since the beginning. I hope I have done it justice.**

* * *

 **Chapter 15: Revealed**

 _Little Lotte let her mind wander._

Christine remembered the first time she saw Raoul. She had been sitting with her father at a tavern near the southern coast of France. They had been sharing a half-loaf of bread, the most they could afford that night, but at least they had a warm place to stay. Then, a maid brought over two orders of cassoulet, and Christine's stomach had flipped hungrily at the sight of the beans and meat steaming together in the bowls.

Papa had protested, saying they had not ordered anymore food. However, Christine caught sight of a young man sitting closer to the fire. From his dress, he was wealthy, possibly a nobleman. Even back then, not knowing who they were, Raoul had been quick to smile at them.

Charles had refused the food, his pride unable to accept, but the Vicomte had said he could be repaid with their company. He was traveling alone, and if they would join him, he would be honored.

 _She thought of everything and nothing._

She supposed she had been smitten. Raoul had been kind and generous, and she had been hungry for more than simply food. His smiles, his laughter, the way his eyes had continuously strayed to her – all of it, she had craved.

 _Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or shoes?_

The gate opening, the creak harsh in her ears, drew her attention back to the present. Raoul walked toward her, dressed in light gray trousers, a dark blue jacket, and a matching waistcoat that no doubt brought out the blue in his own eyes. He held onto his black top hat so that an errant branch could not knock it off his coiffed blonde locks.

Her heart hurt upon seeing him. But she had now realized this was merely an echo of an idea that had never entered reality.

 _Or of riddles or frocks? Or of chocolates?_

She had been a child when she had met him just after her mother's illness. She had been a child when she had blushed upon reading his frivolous notes, a child when she had spent her weeks waiting for him to show her some affection.

She was a child no longer. And no longer did she want _him._

She moved to face him as he approached. While her heart thudded within her chest, beneath the key hidden under her collar, she felt clear-headed about her intentions.

"I have found you at last, little Lotte," he said, grinning. He always had that easy charm about him, the way he could relax into a scene even when the tension was thick enough to cut.

Christine forced her lips to curl upward. "You received my letter."

"I did. I was rather surprised to find it delivered by Madame Giry." He glanced around them. The park was empty save the fountain, the benches, and the trees adorned with browning leaves. "You are alone?"

She was, but she ignored the question. "I was worried you would not believe it was from me. Or even if you did, you would not come."

"Of course!" he said, stepping closer. "I will come to you whenever you ask. I have been looking everywhere for you – the police have been looking everywhere for you. That night… you simply _vanished_ , Christine."

His words tugged at her conscious, but this was a delicate tightrope she walked. "I am sorry for worrying you."

"I was worried _sick!_ "

Raoul had closed the distance between them. She saw his arms come around her, but she could not step beyond them. He was warm and soft and strong as he enfolded her in a hug. His hands rubbed up and down her spine, one slipping to cup the back of her pinned hair and press her closer still to him.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

"Somewhere safe," she said. She loosened her own arms, but he did not let go. "I am so sorry for making you worry."

"Yes, you said that. But you haven't exactly answered my question." Now he did pull back enough to peer down at her. "Have you been staying with Madame Giry?"

The woman would have been a good alibi, but Christine did not want to involve her more than she already had. She shook her head. "No, but where I have been doesn't matter. What matters is that I am here now."

"We can debate that! But indeed, you are here. You look well, Lotte. Better than well, though I must say that mourning garb does not suit your loveliness. Your father's passing… I was saddened by the news."

"My father's murder, you mean." Her eyes flashed. She wanted to keep the peace between them, but she would not stand for vague wording of the truth. "One of your men barged into our home and murdered him."

He frowned and now released her, taking a step back. "When I heard the news, I feared you had also been harmed. Plamondon and Leclair were supposed to be in the building to move a shipment of weapons. I have no idea why they would go up to the attic and attack your father like they did. Both would be in jail if they were not already dead."

She wanted to believe his words. She truly did. How could she stomach the thought that Raoul had something to do with her father's death?

Raoul waved an arm to indicate the gardens around them. "If you have been safe all this time, why did you not contact me before?"

"I was frightened, Raoul. I had just seen my father… I had seen him get killed, and I did not know why someone would do such a thing to him. I feared for my own life." His hands came up as though he was going to hug her again, but she turned away before he could do so, walking to a nearby bench and sitting. "It took some time to convince Madame Giry to bring you a letter to meet me here too. I probably should not be out in the open like this."

He frowned. "But why would you not come to me sooner? If you had shown up at my doorstep, I surely would have let you in!"

"I know." She stared down at her hands. "I need to be honest with you – I haven't felt as though matters were completely settled between us."

He sat beside her on the bench and took her gloved hands in his own. Although now the leather of their gloves blocked their contact, she remembered how warm he had always felt. "Whatever do you mean, Lotte?"

"When we last parted, I felt unease at what had transpired between us at your home. I was so stunned, I do not believe I was very clear about my own feelings." She struggled to search for the right words, to explain how wrong the evening had felt without estranging him further.

"I understand that perhaps you have been confused," he said, squeezing her fingers. "However, is this truly why you contacted me? To wax poetic about the past?"

"N-No, Raoul."

"Then what?"

His bluntness caught her off-guard. She squeezed his hands back to keep from reaching up to tug on the chain around her neck. She did not want him knowing she had it upon her person, not until she saw his reaction to her next words.

"Before father died," she said, "he gave me a key."

Raoul's handsome face split into a wild grin. "I knew it!" He threw his arms around her; before she could react, he had bent down and captured her lips in a wet, open-mouthed kiss. She wrenched away, but he did not seem to notice how quickly she did so.

"Y-You knew?"

"I did! I just knew Charles was hiding something. Why else would he decide to go running off to Martel, and after all the trouble I went through to get him this job? Things were working out so well; there was no reason for him to leave. And he would have taken you away as well. Don't you see, Lotte? If Charles had cooperated, none of this would have happened."

"Cooperated? Raoul, what are you talking about?"

He gripped her upper arms. "Where is the key now?"

"I-In a safe place." Dread was filling her. She wanted straight-forward answers, but she was terrified of what those answers might end up being. "That is why I wrote you the letter. I thought we could go to the bank together and open the vault. I-I thought maybe if I saw what was inside, I might better understand what happened to Papa."

His eyes roamed over her. "Where, Christine? Where is it?"

"I will show you when we get there."

The expression on his face settled into something harder. "I see. I thought you had called me here so we could continue what we had between us, not that you would refuse to answer my questions."

"Raoul, I… that is not what I meant."

"Do you even know what you mean?" His voice was still soft, but she did not like the look in his eyes. He shifted on the bench and rubbed his gloved palms on his thighs, seeming to think about his next words. "Well, we will both have to wait a moment before we can go."

"Raoul-"

"Enough." One of his hands came up to grip her upper arm, his fingers digging into the tender skin there. His other hand slid behind his back between jacket and waistcoat. He pulled out a small black pistol. "Come on out," he said. He was not speaking to her.

From the shadows at the back of the gardens emerged a dark figure. His long limbs moved with seemingly unconcerned ease; his arms hung limply at his sides. He walked forward until the street lamp cast a yellow glow across his black mask.

"Erik!" she cried. How long had he been there, lurking in the darkness? And how had he even known where she was? She pushed aside these thoughts, focusing upon the fact that Raoul had a gun pointed at the man who had come to consume all of her senses. She placed a calming hand on Raoul's thigh beside her. "It is all right, Raoul. I know him. He is a friend of mine."

Raoul did not lower his weapon. "Come closer."

Silent, Erik did as requested, stepping away from the surrounding trees and entering the small glade where they sat.

"That is far enough," Raoul said, gun held steady. "I suspected you would trail after the girl, like a hound after its mistress. You simply cannot help yourself, can you?"

Erik merely stood there, yellow eyes focused upon the other man. Not once had he looked at Christine. His complacency confused her. She thought of the way Erik had reacted when he had seen Raoul at the Palais Garnier two nights ago. He had been _furious_. Where was that anger now?

Suddenly, she was consumed with her own welling fear that she was the only one here who did not understand. These two men… knew each other.

"Put the gun away," she said, voice rising. "Please, Raoul, you do not need it!"

"Oh, my sweet Christine," Raoul said, not taking his gaze from the other man. "My sweet, easy, trusting Christine. Have you been spending all of your time with this monster? Has he forced you into whatever hole he crawled out of? You poor girl; how terrified you must have been."

She tried to stand, but Raoul's steely grip on her arm prevented her. "Erik would never hurt me!" she protested.

"Is that your name?" Raoul said wistfully, to the silent man standing before them. "So much simpler than the Phantom or the Strangler, or whatever moniker you currently go by. Rather _plain_ , however, I think. In any case, let us diverge you of the weapons you are no doubt carrying, shall we? Undress to your shirtsleeves."

"No, Raoul!"

His mouth quirked upward. His gun did not waver. "Go on. It has not been too long for you to forget your place."

Erik had yet to even look Christine's way, his yellow eyes focused solely upon the Vicomte. She wanted him to protest, to use his quick reflexes to spring away from this madness. As he reached up his hands, she averted her gaze to give him privacy, but she knew the gesture was worthless. Standing there, he untied his cloak and let it pool at his feet. He peeled off his jacket and dropped it to the side. Black-gloved fingers twisted free the buttons on his waistcoat and pulled it from his wide, bony shoulders.

Raoul gestured with the pistol. "Your gloves and necktie. We both know you love any thin bit of fabric."

Erik did not react, but he did as ordered. He plucked at each finger until the gloves gave way. Then white fingers tugged loose his necktie, which he balled up and tossed away from him.

"Turn out your pockets," Raoul said evenly.

Erik did so, revealing a length of catgut.

"Throw it into the bushes there, and then roll up your sleeves. We can't have you hiding anything else, now can we?"

Christine felt sick. She forced herself to turn her eyes back to Erik. He stood there in black pants and a white shirt open at the throat. He had neatly folded his sleeves back to the elbow to reveal the corded muscle of his forearms. His fingers curled into loose fists at his sides, but his body language otherwise revealed no reaction to this turn of events.

"Why are you doing this?" She tested the hold on her arm, but Raoul did not budge.

Raoul quirked an eyebrow. "I suppose he didn't tell you much, did he? Do you have any idea of how dangerous he is, Christine?" His mouth twisted into a look of disgust. "This repulsive excuse for a man is a murderer. I am so thankful you finally were able to get away from him and come to me."

Christine shook her head. She had started to shake from the shock of it all. "I did not _escape_ him to come here! That is not at all why I decided to meet you. I-I told you – I discovered what the key opens. We can go there now, Raoul; we can go there now and open whatever vault is at the bank."

"Yes, darling, we will go there soon."

Her heart was thumping wildly in her chest. She tried a smile and likely failed. "Then let Erik leave. There is no reason for him to be here, no reason for any of this. You and I can go to the bank together."

Focus remaining on the other man, Raoul gave a pedantic sigh. "I'm afraid that is where our opinions differ, Lotte, and now your ignorance is shining through. This man – if I can dare call him that – agreed to work for me, and then he decided to renege on our agreement once the job became too difficult. Isn't that right?" he asked Erik, who did not respond. "I thought perhaps spending some time in chains would make him more agreeable, but then I realized I needed another course of action."

 _Oh God!_ Christine's mind spun. Erik had worked for _Raoul_? This whole time, it had been her beloved friend who had imprisoned the man she had come to adore with her entire being. Raoul had been his "employer." Raoul had been the reason he had been hurt so terribly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she whispered to the dark figure before them.

Raoul waved the pistol, causing her to gasp with fright. "Everyone has their secrets, you stupid girl. Everyone has a price they are willing to pay. Now, I suggest we get on with this before my patience is at an end. Kneel."

Erik's fingers flexed, the only sign he had heard. Christine hated that he had yet to speak a word. Even yelling at her for being so utterly naïve would have been more preferable.

Raoul's blue eyes narrowed. " _Kneel_ , corpse."

Christine had heard that same horrible word before.

 _"Evening, corpse," Leclair said. "I see you're waiting for us like a good little pet."_

 _The sickening sound of wood against cloth. Wood against flesh._

 _"Jesus Christ, I almost think you enjoy that."_

 _"What does it matter? He's lower than a dog at this point."_

Tears rushed to blur Christine's vision. She blinked them away furiously. "Raoul, stop this at once!" She cried out as his fingers bruised her arm with his tight grip. Suddenly, she found herself staring into the black circular end of Raoul's pistol. He had turned the weapon to face her, bringing it around to dig the cold metal into the tender skin of her hip just below her corset. She cried out in shock but held still, a surge of fear causing her to freeze.

"Stop."

Both of them stared at the man before them. Erik had outstretched a trembling hand, his knees bent into the beginnings of a crouch.

"Stop," he said throatily. "I will do it."

Raoul's mouth twisted in a cruel smile. He let go of Christine's aching arm to dig his fingers into the back of her neck, pulling the tender hairs there and causing her to gasp in pain. "I knew you would swoon the moment you first saw her. She is so lovely, after all, is she not? Even in her fear, she blossoms."

Christine shuddered. "Please, Raoul. Stop this insanity!"

He went on as though she had not spoken: "Kneel."

This time, Erik did so. He slowly fell to his knees in the browning grass, hands splayed in supplication in the air. Christine hated the sight, hated that she was the reason any of this was happening, hated that he still had not _looked at her._

"That is better," Raoul said.

Not caring that she had a pistol digging into her hip, she tried to wrench his fingers free of her neck. "Let go of me!" she cried. "Erik, just go; get out of here!"

Pain blossomed across her face. Her cheekbone was set ablaze; she saw stars as a surge of dizziness overtook her. Raoul had backhanded her with the weapon's handle. Just as quickly, he smoothed the backs of his knuckles across the busted skin, his pistol close enough for her to smell the gunpowder.

"You forced my hand, Lotte," he said with sickening gentleness. "Honestly, I expected more of your behavior today. Has this monster manipulated you in some way? Threatened you?" His voice grew hard, and his fingers tightened on the back of her neck. "You haven't grown to care about him, have you?" He gave her a shake, and she twisted to grab onto his wrist to prevent him from wrenching out the hairs pulled free from her chignon. "You aren't _in love_ with him, are you?"

"Stop this, Vicomte," Erik hissed from between clenched teeth. "I said I will cooperate. You have no reason to harm her!"

Raoul kept the gun pointed at Christine, but his eyes swiveled between the two of them, assessing. Christine did not like this momentary silence. Then he said, quietly, "You haven't seen under the mask."

Christine's eyes widened. She stared helplessly at Erik, who had risen to his toes when Raoul had struck her. Now he shrunk back to the grass, hands settling palms up on his thighs. Her silence was enough to confirm Raoul's suspicion. Erik's eyes burned with a blaze of hatred aimed at the other man.

The Vicomte clicked his tongue. "Then let us be done with it. Go on now. Show her that thing you call a face."

 _No!_ Christine had wanted to grow closer to Erik, had wanted their bond to only intensify. She had felt such happiness when he had trusted her enough to let her touch beneath his mask. She had hoped, in time, that he would feel comfortable enough to reveal his face to her _by his own choice_. And now, forced upon his knees before the man who had imprisoned him, he was being ordered to do so against his will. What could she do but look? She did so, keep her gaze steady upon him, trying to make him understand that no matter his face, she accepted him wholeheartedly.

Erik's hands rose to the tie that held his mask in place. Her heart swelled. She did not doubt that he did this for _her_ , that he could have escaped the moment Raoul had turned the gun to her instead of him. Yet he had not; he had only obeyed these final commands _because_ her safety was being questioned. Erik's affection, she realized, ran far deeper than she had assumed, and although her cheek still throbbed, and fear still flowed in her veins, she wanted nothing more than to show him how she felt.

Erik's fingers tugged the tie at the back of his head. The mask came free, sliding down enough that his eyes were hooded for a moment. One of his hands came up to keep the stiff black fabric from freely falling. His chest heaved.

He lowered the mask until he cupped it in both of his hands, his knuckles dragging loosely against the grass. Christine forced herself to take in every detail of his appearance that he had kept so desperately hidden from her. The leathery ribbons of skin she had felt with her fingertips spread across the surface of his face, stretched tightly over bony features. His flesh was a mottled gray, his thin eyebrows drawn together. His lips, what little there were, pressed together in a straight line. A black hole gaped where his nose should have been.

She felt Raoul smear a swatch of wetness that carved down her cheeks. "These tears," he said. "One can never be certain if she weeps for you or for yourself."

Christine ignored him. She stared at those golden eyes, the eyes she knew so well. The face was foreign to her – a stranger's face – but those eyes belonged to it, and therefore, that face belonged to her. She watched as they pivoted from the ground to finally meet her own. In that moment, she wished she could convey what her heart felt. He searched her gaze deeply before returning his even stare to the man beside her.

She knew she had to give Raoul a reaction. As much as she wanted to reassure Erik, she needed to placate the Vicomte. This peeling back of layers, the dissolvement of what she had though to be reality, was all too sickening. It was easy for her to let the bile rise up. She turned her head and gagged, spitting upon the ground.

Next to her, Raoul grinned triumphantly. He tugged his fingers free of Christine's hair and used his hand to cover her eyes. "Put that away before you cause the mademoiselle to faint," he said to Erik. When he lowered his palm, Erik had once more donned the mask.

Christine swallowed down a sob. "What now, Raoul?"

His grin widened. "Now we shall journey to the bank." He snapped his fingers. Several men Christine did not recognize poured into the small garden until they surrounded Erik, who did not seem surprised to see them.

One of the men carried a set of heavy manacles.

She grabbed onto Raoul's arm, disregarding the sting of the pistol once again pressing into her hip. "Please, this is not necessary! Erik said he would cooperate!"

"Oh, but it is necessary, my little Lotte. He can't be trusted. Not anymore than, I think, you can." He gestured, and the men latched onto Erik's arms, forcing him to bring them round to his back. She knew Erik could overpower them, but she also knew that he would not raise a hand to defend himself while she was still in danger.

She had been so foolish to come here tonight. She had thought she could merely receive answers about her father's death. Instead, she had jeopardized the life of the man she had come to care about with all her heart. She flinched upon hearing the rattle of the thick metal, the clamping of the manacles around Erik's wrists loud in her ears.

One of the men brought a key to Raoul, who pocketed it on the inside of his jacket. Then he rose from the bench, holding a gentile hand out to Christine. At their feet, Erik still knelt, bowed forward, wrists cinched together by the cuffs.

"Shall we?" Raoul said, and Christine had no choice but to place her hand within his.


	16. Open

**Whoa, almost a month has passed since the last chapter! My apologies. Work and unending sickness in my family took over my energy for a while. I hope to stick to a quicker schedule from now on. Thank you so much for all the love on the last chapter - each and every comment keeps me going!**

 **A note about this chapter's historical accuracy: while I mess with timelines by a couple years, names and history mentioned here are fairly true to what I have researched.**

 **Finally, if you don't already follow me on Tumblr, you can usually keep track of my writing progress there. i-am-melancholys-child is my username.**

 **Onward!**

* * *

 **Chapter 16: Open**

Raoul's hand was familiar around hers: warm, strong, his fingers curved in the fashion of the aristocracy. But Christine saw him in a different light now, as a man who had a goal he wanted to accomplish. No longer did she believe that he wanted her company for the sake of merely wanting to be with _her_. Those fingers around hers squeezed with a commanding grip, a hold on her that he would not easily give up now that he had her.

At least not until they used her key.

As soon as they had climbed into his stagecoach, Raoul had turned to her and asked for the location of the bank. What could she do but give it? The branch of the _Haute Banque_ that Christine had seen on Nadir's notes was at least a four-hour carriage ride away. Maybe more. Why had Papa been given a key to a vault so far away from Paris? Christine wondered how long he had known he was going to be working for Monsieur Martel instead of Raoul, and how much of this could have been avoided if he had just been honest with her.

Raoul did not let go of her hand in the carriage. She wanted to jerk it away. With her other hand, she moved aside the curtain to peer outside. She caught a glimpse of Erik being helped to his feet, his eyes trailing after her, until the horses jerked them into motion.

"Don't fret," Raoul said beside her, squeezing her hand. "He is coming along with us. His services will likely be needed before the night is over."

"What kind of services?"

"You have lived with him for these past two weeks, Lotte. Are you admitting that you know so little about your captor?"

She ignored the jab; she was not going to inadvertently reveal anything about Erik that Raoul did not already know. She shook her head. "Erik did not capture me, Raoul, nor has he had any actions toward me that were less than courteous. You have no right to treat him like this."

"Actually, I have every right. We had an agreement, he and I, an agreement that he would aid me in my venture to take over Manufacture d'Armes. However, he decided to renege on that agreement when it suited him barely three months into our verbal contract."

"And then you chained him up in the basement." She felt sick, saying those words aloud. To lock up another human being simply because he would not thief and murder any longer!

Raoul's blue eyes danced with amusement. "Not me, specifically. Your captor and I rarely had direct contact – for my own safety, you see, from such a dangerous man. Erik, you called him? I admit I am rather disappointed at his lack of imaginative name." He tapped his other finger against his chin thoughtfully. "How long did it take for you to find him there? Truthfully, I had no idea you had even met him before you both vanished from MASE."

Christine looked down at their entwined fingers. Just that morning, it had been Erik's long fingers around her own as he led her through the passageways of his home. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat. No matter what, she had to stay calm. And she had to be cautious with the words she spoke.

"I spoke with him, yes," she said carefully. "But you are overestimating the nature of our relationship, Raoul. I barely know him."

"Perhaps that is true, yet I saw the way he looks at you as though he loves you. There is no doubt in my mind that he does. You are so easy to love, after all. Your silky voice, your lovely curls. The way you look at people would bring even a murderer to his knees." He gave a chuff of a laugh. "And I suppose you did, didn't you?"

She clenched the fold of her skirt with her free hand to still her trembling. "I-I am not certain what you mean, Raoul."

"Are you not?" Letting go of her hand, he fetched a flask from his coat, unscrewed the top, and poured some of the liquid onto a handkerchief. Then he pressed the handkerchief to her cheek. In the wake of Erik's unmasking and captivity, she had forgotten that Raoul had cuffed her with his pistol.

The alcohol stung, but the coolness was admittedly welcome against her enflamed cheek. She let him tend to her in silence, but she did not allow his tenderness knock her off her guard.

"I apologize for this, Lotte. It is beneath any man to hit a woman." He continued to press the fabric to her cheek, then set it aside and took her hand again. "I needed control over him, and hurting you seemed the quickest way to achieve that. You don't flinch away from me, but I can see the betrayal in your eyes. Will you forgive me? I didn't mean to break the skin, only to cause a little bruising that he would witness."

Christine remembered the way Erik had reacted, immediately becoming complacent and falling to his knees. Raoul had manipulated him by threatening her. She felt bile rise up again, but she needed to ease the tension between her and Raoul if she had any hope of helping Erik later.

"I-I forgive you," she said.

"It saddens me, this distance between us, but I have only myself to blame. I knew what would happen when I encouraged you to visit the little bench in the courtyard."

"What?" She could bare squeeze the word from her closing through. "W-What do you mean, Raoul?

He turned to her on the seat of the carriage, knee brushing against hers. His thumb smoothed across the back of her glove. "For what it is worth to you now, I regret any part you have had to play in this. He wasn't cooperating, you see. I had to do something. His window only overlooked that courtyard, right? I knew that monster would have nothing to preoccupy him but visions of you beyond his window."

The little bench in the courtyard. The place she had first met Erik.

Christine jerked her hand free of his, staring at him with wide eyes in the dim light. "That note you wrote me the day we settled into the apartment… You left me a rose on that bench." She drew in a shaky breath. "I thought you were showing me a space I could call my own, where I could relax away from my father."

"If that is what it served for you, Lotte, then I am glad of it."

"But… that is not why you sent me down there."

Raoul shook his head, a mockery of sadness. "I will admit it, so that you truly understand why I need your help. That _thing_ in the carriage behind us – he cares nothing about his own life. He has made it clear many times over that he doesn't care whether he lives or dies. But I witnessed today what he is willing to do if you are involved. If he believes I am willing to hurt you to achieve my goals, then he will do anything I ask to keep you safe."

Christine had realized that Erik had allowed those manacles back on his wrists simply because of her. There was no other reason why he would succumb to those men without fighting back otherwise. But to hear Raoul speak it so openly, to admit to her that he had manipulated Christine and Erik from the moment she had arrived in Paris…

Christine reached up to touch her split cheek, the skin still stinging from the alcohol. Raoul had been so keen to use her from the very beginning. He had prepared her as an offering to the man in the basement he had wanted to control – a man he did not even consider to _be_ a man. If he believed Erik to be so dangerous, then he had put her in danger by sending her to that bench.

Then she thought about how calm Raoul had been in the gardens, even as Erik had appeared out of the shadows. He had been expecting Erik to arrive, expected him to come to save her. _You can bring even a murderer to his knees_ , he had said.

She had done exactly what Raoul had wanted her to do. This whole time, she had played right into his plans. And Erik had been the one to suffer for it.

Next to her, Raoul waxed on about how everything had cleverly fallen into place. She had almost asked the question on her tongue: _are_ you willing to hurt me to achieve your goals? She thought she already knew the answer. If Raoul had ever loved her, he loved his company and the status it could bring him more.

In any case, she no longer worried much about her own safety. Now, she had to focus upon righting the mistakes she had made. She had to free Erik from his prison once again… no matter what it cost her.

* * *

They traveled for several hours without stopping. The tall buildings of Paris gave way to rolling hills and the occasional vineyard. They passed fewer travelers on the road as daylight quickly faded into the glow of a nearly full moon.

At one point, they stopped to light and disperse gas lamps among their little caravan. Christine took the chance to stretch her legs under Raoul's watchful eye. She surveyed their troop; she counted six visible men – two with her and Raoul and four with Erik, including the men caretaking the horses. All carried weapons, which was not unusual considering the likelihood of highwaymen lurking past dark on these country roads.

There were two carriages, and she guessed Erik inhabited the second although the curtains stayed drawn tight. Everyone seemed in an upbeat mood, including Raoul, who shared a drink with the men during the stop.

Soon, they were back inside the stagecoach and rolling again. The horses were tiring, the panting breaths of the four beasts coming out in white, overtaxed puffs in the cold, night air. The streets here were not as smooth as the ones in the city. Christine knew they would not be able to travel much longer without new animals.

"Another hour, maybe less," Raoul said at her side, as if reading her thoughts.

Christine let the curtain fall back. "What are you hoping to find inside the vault?" She pressed a hand to her collar, feeling the bite of the metal key at her throat, the surface warmed by her skin. Raoul had demanded to see it before they left the city limits of Paris, but he had allowed her to keep it tucked safely under her bodice. She wondered what he would have done had she not actually had the key on her person.

"I suppose there is no harm in telling you now," he said, leaning back against the side of the coach. "The war minister, General Boulanger, is wanting to upgrade the rifles of France's infantry, bringing them into modern times before the turn of the century. Rumor has it that the Swiss have already developed a new bullet casing that allows for rapid fire without melting. Boulanger has ordered new rifles to be developed using this technology."

"What does that have to do with Monsieur Martel?"

"Martel wants in on the project, which is certain to generate a huge amount of cash and notoriety for anyone involved. He has connections to a chemist in Paris who has developed a type of gunpowder that allows weapons to shoot without smoke. Imagine that! Whole battles waged without clouds of smoke shadowing the scene and getting in the way."

"Have you asked Monsieur Martel to let you join them?"

Raoul snorted. "Martel wants me focused on running MASE, but I don't intend on settling for such a meager venture. The new bullets along with the smokeless gunpowder are certain to change the course of war throughout the world, and I want in on the contract. Martel is keeping such knowledge secret until he has secured the account with General Boulanger, but if I can approach Boulanger first, I can snag the deal from under his nose."

The business of war. Christine had known that Raoul dealt in weapons; it was the company her father had worked for, after all. If Martel had given Charles the key that she now carried, had her father also wanted to join in such a venture with him?

"You believe Monsieur Martel left the plans for the gunpowder in this vault?" she asked.

"Where else? He would not want them on his person, not where they could be easily stolen. How clever he thinks he is, to keep them in a safety deposit box far from Paris. And to the give the key to your father! No one would suspect Charles of having it."

Christine frowned at this. "But you did."

"Alas," Raoul said, shaking his head. "When I learned that your father was leaving MASE to work for Martel directly, I knew he must be involved in this new campaign. Why else would he have left the job I helped him secure?" He reached out and cupped Christine's cheek, careful to avoid her swollen cut. "Why else would he have wanted to steal you away from me when I had only just gotten you to Paris?"

Christine knew the answers to his question. Papa had wanted to leave because he was not being paid enough to sustain them, because he was unhappy in Paris. He had wanted to leave because Raoul had no intention of marrying her and because he had known things with the company's branch in Paris were beginning to unravel with Raoul in charge.

She bit her lip and stayed silent.

Raoul sighed. "In the end, I was right, was I not? He gave you the key, and here we are. Soon, we will see what the key opens. I will have the plans in my hands for smokeless gunpowder, and therefore, solidify my place in history. If not… well, let us hope for the former."

"Monsieur le Vicomte!" called a man from outside the coach.

Raoul pulled aside the curtain to see a man on horseback riding alongside them. "What is it?"

"We have reached the outskirts of Evry. Shall I go on ahead and locate the bank?"

"Of course. And tell Dubois to find the best tavern nearby. We will need a place to celebrate afterward."

"Yes, monsieur." The man heeled his horse, and the two sped off into the night.

Evry was a sizable town located on the Seine south of Paris. Lamps dotted the harbor as they passed through and crossed a bridge, the flickering lights illuminating the small ships moving supplies through the town. Beyond its location, nothing seemed remarkable about Evry or made it different from any other small Parisian town. Perhaps this was why Martel had selected it.

Raoul nearly bounced with excitement when the man on horseback returned to say he could guide them to the _Haute Banque_ location. They pulled their caravan right up to the front doors of the building, the white stone rising starkly in the night. With no lights on inside, it was obvious that the bank was closed for the night. However, Christine quickly saw why this did not matter. The carriage blocked the bank from the rest of the street's view, and few people patroned this business-orientated area of town at night anyway.

"Ready?" he asked Christine, who nodded.

She and Raoul climbed out of their carriage, her legs stiff from both uneasiness and from sitting too long. The air held a misty quality to it, like impending rain approached. Perhaps this aided them because it discouraged others from promenading on the streets. They were alone in the damp night.

She saw Erik step out of the stagecoach behind them. His wrists were still leashed together behind his back; had he been forced to travel the entire distance in such an uncomfortable position? Her heart thumped fiercely in her chest at the sight of him. He towered over the other men, who shifted warily now that he was free of the confines of the cabin. If it were not for his white shirtsleeves, his black form would have merged into the night.

"Did he give you any trouble?" Raoul asked.

One of the men shrugged. "No, Monsieur le Vicomte. Not a peep, not a twitch. I do have to admit that I let Dubois rough him up earlier. Leclair was his cousin, you see. Nothing that will get in the way of his doing his job, I swear."

Erik's eyes glanced once at her, then flicked away to the Vicomte. She wanted desperately to speak to him. For one wild moment, she thought about screaming to attract attention or throwing herself at Raoul to help Erik escape. Even with the men standing around with hands on their pistols, maybe he could get away in the dark in time.

However, before she could act, Erik stepped forward. "I will need the use of my hands."

Raoul waved a hand at one of the men, who stepped forward to detach Erik's wrists from each other. The manacles still hung heavily from his wrists, but he rolled his shoulders and held out an expectant hand.

"If you wish me to pick the lock, I assume you brought me the correct tools?"

"Just hurry up," one of the men snapped, tossing a rolled parcel at his feet.

Coolly, Erik bent and picked it up, a folding and unfolding of long limbs. He began to move to the front of the building, unwrapping the parcel as he went and revealing an array of precise tools arranged in a neat line across the fabric. Christine had seen Erik use a similar set of items when he had removed the manacles from his wrists soon after they had escaped.

She realized what Raoul had meant by needing Erik's services. Erik stepped up to the double doors of the bank and selected several of the tools. It took only moments for him to spring the several locks on the outside of the doors. His nimble fingers worked with confident meticulousness.

The door sprang open, and he stepped aside, looking at Raoul for further instructions. The whole scenario was revolting, grotesque in its casual demeanor. Why was he following Raoul's orders without any protest? No matter how he moved, he was bookended by at least two men with pistols, but there had to be some way to elude them.

"In we go, boys," Raoul said, as the doors opened. "Mademoiselle," he added to Christine, holding out his elbow.

Swallowing down her rising trepidation, she took his arm. Her shoes clicked on the dark marble floor, echoing in the empty space. Beyond the front doors of the bank, a lobby loomed, the shadows gradually chased away by their lanterns. Walls made of security bars separated the lobby from the rest of the bank, but Erik made quick work of them, opening several narrow doors in each set of metal barriers.

Quickly, they moved further into the building. The men were eyeing the large vault gleaming in the back, but Erik tossed the roll of lock-picking tools at one of them.

"You will need more than picks if you want to stage a full bank heist," he said dryly.

Raoul held up a hand. "You are being paid well enough," he snapped at the men. "I can see the safety deposit boxes from here, so you can take him back to his prison. And for God's sake, secure his hands properly and count the roll to make sure he hasn't stolen anything." He appeared to work to calm himself and gave Christine a half-smile. "Shall we?"

Erik's golden eyes were focused upon her as he ignored the men who roughly grabbed his arms and forced his wrists behind his back once again.

 _Do something_ , she pleaded with him silently.

As if reading her mind, he gave the slightest shake of his head.

His arm threaded through hers, Raoul tugged her further into one of the side halls of the bank. She glanced back to see Erik being led back outside, and then it was only her and Raoul. They entered a narrow room lined in rows of various-sized doors, each outfitted with a keyed lock. Christine felt her heart begin to beat harder, a cold rush of nervousness prickling the hairs on her arms.

Raoul set a lantern on the floor nearby and then swept a hand at the rows of doors. "Which one, little Lotte?"

Christine pulled the chain free of her high black collar. Her fingers undid the clasp so that she could look at the golden, gleaming side of the key. "It says 117."

"Ah, one of the larger boxes on the floor!" He held out his hand for the key, and she gave it over, watching as he knelt to one knee. The key slid easily into the lock and turned, the jumble of metal on metal loud in the bank's dark space.

The door opened, revealing a wooden panel with a handle in the middle. Raoul grasped the handle and pulled, sliding out a large wooden box, its lid secured with metal clasps. The length of the box would have reached Christine's waist had it been standing on end, and it was wider and higher than both of her hands together.

Raoul grinned up at her, then proceeded to undo each of the clasps on his side until he could lift the lid. He peered inside, the lid blocking Christine's view, and then he tossed it open in a sudden jerky burst of movement.

"Raoul, what is-" She was about to say _wrong_ , but she knew what was wrong the moment he threw open the box. Nestled inside among heaps of moisture-wicking straw were two items: a small, decorative box.

And an instrument case.

"What the _hell_ is this?" Raoul snarled.

He flipped open the lid of the instrument case, but Christine already knew what was inside. She knew that cracked, worn black case. She had carried it herself as a little girl many times. She had popped it open again and again until she had committed the sound of the clasps to a memory as certain as her own heartbeat. She herself had gently removed the violin inside to hand it to her father, the weight comforting in her arms; she had brought him his beloved instrument each time he had settled by the fire to play.

And she had sobbed as Papa had wrenched the case from her hands, his own fist white-knuckled around the handle, and strode out of the room to sell it after her mother had died. At least, Papa had told her he had sold it, but here it was, the curves of the golden-brown instrument as familiar to her as the back of her own hand. Christine knelt, reaching out to pluck the catgut strings; the violin was not in tune, but she felt its reverberations in her heart anyway.

"Papa's violin," she whispered.


	17. Truth

**A quicker update! You might have to wait longer for the next, but at least this chapter was already ready in my head.**

* * *

 **Chapter 17: Truth**

They were both on their knees in the darkened hall of the bank. Raoul's fine leather shoes squeaked upon the marble floor, a discordant note amid her plucking of the violin's strings. Christine's mourning gown pooled around her in soft waves of black, melding with the shadows that threatened around them.

Raoul's eyes jerked to her, fine blonde eyebrows drawn downward, the image of confusion and anger mixed together in a nasty swirl of rising anguish.

"Your father's… violin?" he said.

She nodded. She stroked the cool wooden neck of the instrument with her fingertips. The honey-hued wood glowed in the steady light of the nearby lantern. "I would recognize it anywhere," she said, unable to keep the fondness from her voice.

She realized too late that her lack of concern only fueled Raoul's mounting fury. He turned his attention back to the only other noticeable thing in the straw-filled crate. Face twisted, he wrenched open the little box with ornate carvings across its surface. Christine did not recognize the box, but inside, she saw items she thought she knew – a photograph curling at its edges, a turquoise glass bottle with a liquid inside, a pair of gold rings.

"This has to be a joke," Raoul said, lifting the decorative box out of the straw. "Your father – this key. Where are the gunpowder plans?" He stared down at the contents, his face gradually turning a deep, alarming shade of red. " _Where are Martel's plans_?"

His shout rang out, echoing off the rows of safety deposit boxes. Christine had no answer for him. She scrambled to find something to say that might placate him, but to no avail. She reached to take the box from him, but he jerked it away and hurled the little box across the room, its contents spilling across the marble floor.

Christine scrambled to her feet, but it was too late for the glass bottle, which broke on impact, filling the room with the scent of daffodils and orange blossoms. At once, Christine was transported to her mother's bedroom, watching as the woman dabbed perfume on her wrists and behind her ears, sometimes letting Christine have a drop on her own wrist.

"Mama," Christine said, choking on a sudden sob. She rushed over and let the stronger scent waft over her for the briefest of moments. When her mother had died, the scent had lingered in her room for months afterward. Christine did not believe the smell truly faded from her senses until she and Papa had moved away. She touched a finger to a drop of the liquid and pressed the dampness to her neck under her ear.

She could do nothing now about the spilled perfume nor the broken glass, so she left them where they lay. She picked up the photograph and found herself staring down at the young faces of her parents soon after they had married. In her mother's arms was a baby dressed in white – Christine as an infant.

The two gold rings had scattered across the floor. She sought them both, knowing them for what they were: the wedding rings of her parents. They were both simple; her parents had never had much money. Her mother's dainty gold band and her father's thicker ring created a demanding weight against her palm. She wanted to keep them with her, but she had no pocket or reticule with her.

She placed the rings and photograph back into the decorative case, which now had a crack on the corner. Behind her, Raoul was sifting through the safety deposit crate, tossing handfuls of straw onto the floor. He found several papers under the violin case, including one with seal that he quickly tore open. He scanned the contents, but nothing seemed to be what he wanted.

Raoul leaned back on his palms and with a yell of fury, he gave the box a swift kick. Christine hurried back over, worried he would try to destroy the violin, but he only sat back on his heels and leveled a steely blue scowl upon her.

"Did you know what we would find?" he asked, grinding the words between his teeth.

She tenderly placed the box back inside the crate and closed the case to the violin, as though this would prevent Raoul's anger from being directed upon it. "I had no idea these things were here. I swear to you, Raoul. Father never said what happened to their wedding rings. And Papa _told_ me he sold his violin!"

Her own surge of emotions conflicted with her fear that Raoul would destroy the violin to spite her or Charles; no sooner than she had seen the instrument again, it could be torn from her.

"When did Charles give you the key?" Raoul asked.

As long as he was not preventing her, Christine kept righting the contents of the crate. She desperately wanted to read the letter whose seal Raoul had broken, but she settled for stuffing the protective straw back into the box.

"He gave it to me the night he was killed," she said. "I asked him about it after you first inquired of its whereabouts. I truly believe he did not know anything about these plans you say Martel kept hidden. On his memory, I swear, Raoul! This is the only key that he ever possessed, and as you can see, it only hid his valuables." She felt wetness upon her face and swiped at the tears dampening her cheeks.

"Oh Charles, you foolish, ignorant man," Raoul said. He rose slowly, dusting the bits of straw from the front of his clothing. "You never had any idea about those plans, did you? You were moving to work at Martel's household, and you needed a safe place for these relics of your past. How truly unfortunate for you."

"R-Raoul?"

He cut his eyes at her. She did not like the look. "I suppose I have gotten paranoid through this whole misadventure," he said. "If you had been upfront about the key in the first place, maybe you'd still be alive." He shrugged. "However, you aren't, Charles, and now I have your daughter to contend with. And this corpse of a man … Erik."

"Raoul-"

Raoul bent and grabbed onto her upper arm, wrenching her to her feet. "It is time we test the limits of his adoration of you. How far will he go to keep you safe, Lotte?"

How far would Erik go?

"What are you talking about?" she asked, struggling against him. The crate still lay outside the safety deposit box, the key still in the lock. She desperately wanted to take the items with her, but they would be safer here. "Raoul – the key!"

"Leave it," he snapped, dragging her toward the exit of the bank. "It is all junk anyway." She could hear the despair in his voice, his disappointment at not having found what he wanted mixed with swirling anger. The combination was deadly, and Christine stopped resisting as he towed her back outside, his fingers digging into her arm.

The mist had turned into a drizzle of chilly rain that hit her face as soon as they exited the bank. The two carriages were still waiting where they had left them, the horses pawing impatiently at the cobblestones. They were clearly tired, heads dragging, mouths dragging on the bits.

"Monsieur le Vicomte?" One of Raoul's men stepped up, and he had noticed that they were empty-handed.

"A dead end," Raoul said, thrusting Christine in the direction of their stagecoach. "I need supper. And a drink."

The men glanced at one another. "Should we lock up the bank?"

"Forget about it. No one will even notice until morning, and we'll be long gone before then."

"More travel, monsieur? The horses are done for today. They can't possibly-"

Raoul strode over to the man and back-handed him across the face. "I pay you to follow orders," he said, grabbing the man's shirt and pulling him closer. "Now, did someone find me a place to eat or not?"

"Y-Yes, monsieur."

"Good." He shoved the man back. "I expect to have fresh horses by the time I am done." He jabbed a thumb at Christine, who was seated in the carriage and peering at the window, wide-eyed. "See that she receives a meal as well. None of you are to lay a hand on her while I'm gone." Another of the men quickly dismounted their horse and offered it to Raoul, who swung into the saddle. "Let's go, Dubois. Show me that tavern you found."

Raoul kicked his heels in and sped off at a gallop into the night. Christine's heart was thumping from that exchange. Raoul had been thrumming with anger unlike anything she had ever seen from him, and any of them could have been the target upon whom he focused. She was thankful he had not asked her to join him for dinner. Best he spend some time alone to cool his disappointment.

She rested the back of her head against the carriage. Where did he intend for them to go next? He had not found what he wanted in the safety deposit box, and Christine was fearful of what the future held.

The carriage jostled her as it began to roll once again. The trip was short, however, as they pulled into the town's livery stable. The carriages were parked on the edges of the yard, away from lanterns and prying eyes. Grooms came to unhitch the tired horses and lead them to be tended to, and Christine could hear bargaining beginning for the purchase of new steads.

Christine reflected on Raoul's words, the ones he had spoken to Charles. She was convinced, now more than ever, that Papa had become caught up in a sequence of events that had nothing to do with him. Her heart ached at the realization, but she was also glad for it. Charles had not done anything to deserve his death; his hands had always been clean.

Soon, one of Raoul's men came to her with a parcel of food and canteen of water. It was a meager ration of bread, cheese, and fruit, but it was fresh. Her empty stomach roiled in hunger, but a thought occurred to her.

"Wait," she called. "What about the man in the other carriage? Is he getting anything to eat?"

The employee shrugged. "The Vicomte only gave orders about you, and none of us are going near that freak unless we have to."

"Then let _me_ go to him. I can share my meal." She tried to not give him time to think on this idea, rising from the bench and already starting to ease out of the door.

He put up a hand to stop her. "What do you think you're doing?"

How did Raoul speak to them? With quick decisions to keep them off-balance and confidence that he was the one in charge – not them. She pulled herself together.

"Monsieur le Vicomte has spent a lot of effort and funds getting us this far," she said, pleased her voice warbled only slightly. "I highly doubt he would like if the man in that carriage was lowered in his ability to do his job due to lack of food and water." She eyed him up and down. "You have a weapon, do you not? I hardly think a woman in mourning and a man in shackles would be any match for you. Now, follow me to the other carriage and for God's sake, bring that lantern with you so I do not trip."

She stepped from the carriage then, not giving him time to protest until she was already out. His eyes darted around, but no one else was close enough to notice her elopement. Rain was gathering in larger droplets now, her hat and cloak preventing her from feeling the dampness. She hurried to the other carriage, picking up her skirts with one hand to avoid the worst of the mud.

"Give me the lantern," she snapped at the man trailing after her nervously. When he hesitated, she raised her chin. "Do you want me going in blind, idiot? You can stand right out here and wait for me."

"T-Ten minutes, mademoiselle," he managed.

"Fine."

The curtains on the stagecoach were drawn tightly closed. Outwardly, Christine knew her bold movements and quick release of the latch on the door showcased a confident woman about to confront the masked man within. However, she also realized the fine line she treaded right now.

She had little time to speak with Erik in confidence before they were separated once again.

The carriage was smaller than hers with a single bench seat on the rear boot. Erik leaned against the far side, a position which likely alleviated some of the pressure on his bound arms. His white shirt shone in the lamplight, the rest of him cutting a dark figure in black. She heard the clink of the short metal chain that connected his cuffs as he shifted to gaze up at her. For a moment, their eyes met.

Struggling to draw breath past the tears choking her throat, Christine pulled the door closed behind her. Now hidden from prying eyes, she set down the lantern and parcel of food, sank to the seat beside him, and threw her arms around him.

"Oh Erik," she whispered into the point of his shoulder. "I am sorry. I am so sorry."

She thought she felt him sigh rather than heard him. Then, he said rather sharply in her ear, "What are you doing here?"

She pulled back a little, not willing to full relinquish her hold on him. "I needed to see you, to make sure you were safe." She swept her hands over his arms, checking in the dim light for any signs he was injured.

"You take an unnecessary risk, Christine. You need to leave here. Now."

Shaking her head, she continued her examination of him, noting that he flinched a bit when she prodded about his middle. "They… they said you were beaten."

"Likely a few cracked ribs, but nothing I have not encountered before. _Christine_ , listen to me."

She stopped, meeting his eyes again. "Please, do not send me away. Not yet."

Those golden depths softened. "You must protect yourself," he said, this time gentler in tone. "You must focus on keeping yourself safe."

"I cannot bear the thought of you in these chains again," she said.

She swiped angrily at her tears as they spilled. How uncomfortable he must feel, forced into this position for hours, his pride torn apart by these men… and for her! She wished he could hold her, but it was a selfish thought. She had only a few short minutes, and she could not waste them feeling sorry for herself.

"Erik, Raoul did not find what he wanted with my key. He has gone to dine for supper, but when he returns, I fear what he may want to do next."

"What was in the safety deposit box?"

"S-Some items that belonged to my father." She did not want to get into that now, not while there were other stakes so much more important. "Raoul was furious. I had thought we would use the key, and all of this would be over. Now, I cannot imagine what to do next."

Erik shifted his arms behind his back. "One way or another, I will be free of these cuffs soon." He paused, and the affection she heard then in his voice caused her tears to flow all the harder. "Brave little bird, hold on for me a little longer, yes? You can do that. You can stay strong for a little while longer."

She drew in a shaky breath. "You have a plan, don't you?"

He cut his eyes at the door as though listening for eavesdroppers. He seemed to weigh his next words, to debate how much time they had for conversation. There were so many questions she wanted to ask him – about how he had known where she was going, why he had not taken action when he might have been able to. She knew he was trying to protect her, and her heart ached that he was in this predicament because of her.

"I have placed my reliance upon the Daroga," he said at last.

"Monsieur Khan?"

"He has been suspicious of the Vicomte, and he has been seeking evidence to support the idea that the Vicomte is responsible for your father's death, as well as a string of other misdeeds. If we bide our time, he may very well give the gendarmerie what they need to take him into custody."

"You truly believe Monsieur Khan will be able to help us?"

"He rarely disappoints."

A banging upon the door startled Christine, causing her to yelp. "Hurry up!" shouted the man who had accompanied her.

"Five more minutes!" she called back. Quieter, to Erik, she said, "They gave me food and water. It is not much of a meal, but we can share it." She realized that he could not consume anything on his own with his wrists fastened behind his back, and her face heated.

Erik seemed to realize the same. "It is yours. You need your strength."

"As do you." Scooting a bit closer to him on the bench, she began to unwrap the parcel. "Please, Erik. I do not have much time, and he might grow suspicious if we haven't eaten anything. Now is not the time for pride."

What an awkward situation, but who knew when either of them would have the opportunity to eat and drink again? She uncapped the canteen and took a long swig. The water felt refreshing in her parched mouth. It was not lost on her how Erik eyed the canteen after that.

She offered it to him. When he still hesitated, she puffed a sigh. "I will only lift your mask enough to uncover your mouth, I promise."

"The light," he said thickly.

 _Oh, for-_ "I need to be able to see," she said. But she did lean down and twist the dial until the darkness had risen enough in the small cabin to snuff out most of the details.

Gently, she reached up and pried the mask from his face, her fingers near his chin, lifting the thick black fabric until she caught sight of his lips. She had never seen them up close. They pressed together in a thin line of disapproval, but she was careful not to stare. Before, when she had seen his full visage, she had taken in the sight of him, the absence of the nose was cast in shadow, and she steered her focus upon her task.

Holding the mask up with one hand, she grasped the canteen and brought it to his lips. He drank, a coordinated effort as he tilted his head back enough to sip. The act was strangely intimate, and she realized she had never seen him eat or drink in front of her before. His eyes were in shadow, unable to see while the mask was held upward. Unable to stop herself, she stared at the long, white column of his throat, watched as his Adam's apple bobbled as he swallowed.

After a long draught, she set aside the canteen and broke off bits of bread, not allowing him to protest. For the most part, she was able to avoid touching her fingers to his lips as she passed him pieces of bread and cheese. The curl of his mouth around the food oddly thrilled her, and she tried to focus on eating the other half of the meal herself.

"Apple?" she asked once they had finished off the bread and cheese.

"No, thank you," he murmured, oddly equable. "Another drink of water will do."

She raised the canteen once again, the sound of his swallowing caressing her ears. Once he had enough, he moved slightly away to indicate. She dried his mouth and chin with a fold of her skirt before righting his mask. She spent a little time ensuring that his wig had not been knocked askew and that the tie behind his head was still tight.

When she eased back from him, she was startled by the look in his amber eyes. They were steady upon her face; it was the gaze of a man who had come to some sort of decision. Perhaps that look should have thrilled her, should have matched the ache in her heart, the rapid-fire pulse beneath her breast that yearned constantly for him. But it was not at all the same.

"Thank you for your kindness," he said again.

She frowned, not understanding what had overcome him. "Erik, I-"

"I am going to kill him."

She might have gasped at that, but rather, she felt as though the breath had been knocked from her. She struggled to scramble for a response to such a statement, but her mind could quickly answer any of her own questions. Of whom he was speaking, she knew. She could even understand _why_ and apply multiple reasons.

If Erik was concerned by her lack of response, he gave no indication. His eyes continued to watch her with that steely confidence born from cool reassurance in his required course of action. Christine's mind and heart met in the middle of her conflicted state of being, and she could think of only one response to such conjecture.

Finally, she found her voice. "I would never be able to forgive you."

Whatever she was expected as a reply to her own announcement, it was not what he gave then.

"Sweet little bird," he said, voice like silk as it wrapped around her, "my soul is already beyond redemption. Before this night is over, I will have this chain between my wrists stretched tightly around his throat."

Christine recoiled from him. He only leaned against the side of the carriage and closed his eyes as though attempting to rest: a dismissal of her. Her chest heaved, bile rose up in her throat, but she could no more make herself rebuff him than she could admit that a part of her _wanted_ him to do it.

And perhaps, _that_ is that made her flee back into the night the most.

She ignored the man snapping at her as she tossed aside the lantern, canteen, and apple and all but ran back to her own carriage. By the time she had crossed the few meters, she was shivering in a way unrelated to the cold. She expected the usual tears, but they did not surface. Instead, she felt a bone-chilling reassurance in her own fate.

She had to do everything within her power to put herself between the man she had once thought she had adored and the man to whom she knew she was swiftly losing her heart. Their stopover here in Evry might give Nadir Khan enough time to catch up to them; _this_ Christine yearned for with all her being. But she knew she would likely have to stop Erik from as much as she would have to stop Raoul.

Pulling her cloak tightly about her shivering body, Christine closed her eyes and attempted not to think about anything the future might hold.

* * *

She was awoken by the rough swaying of the carriage. The horses' hooves clumped heavily along a muddy path. Rain beat against the side of the cabin, and the curtains were saturated with water. Christine's breath came out in white tendrils.

As she stirred, a blanket slid from her shoulders and onto her lap. She clutched at it with confusion. From her stiffness, she had been asleep for quite some time.

"You were cold," Raoul said at her side. His chin was propped up with a graceful gloved hand. He glanced at her. "I thought I should let you sleep."

She shifted more upright, wondering how much time had passed. "Thank you," she said, not knowing what else _to_ say.

"I heard you went to my prisoner while I was gone."

She swallowed. "Yes," she said carefully. "I brought him food and water."

"Mm. I suppose he tried to convince you of all the reasons why _I_ am the monster, did he?"

Actually, Erik had done quite the opposite.

Raoul did not seem to care for an actual reply to that. He continued in the same nonchalant manner. "In case you are wondering, we are about another half hour from Martel's chateau north of the Forest of Fontainebleau. The roads are growing rougher out here in the countryside. We might have to abandon the carriages soon."

He paused for a while. Christine was not at all surprised that this was their new destination. She might have asked what Raoul's plans were for when they arrived at Monsieur Martel's home, but she knew she would not like any answers he might give.

Raoul continued, "Growing up, I thought the fact that I had only one brother would work in my favor. My sisters' roles were to become Comtesses or Countesses or some other such head of household for other families. They accomplished that quite easily, of course. Philip is Comte and therefore, he will manager the de Chagny estate after father passes away. But for me… as I grew up, I quickly realized that I would have to make a future for _myself_."

He turned to her, eyes bright. "You understand, don't you, Lotte? You see why I sent those men to get the key from your father? I thought he had it, and I told them no one was to be seriously harmed. But Charles… he protected you, didn't he? And that is what got him shot."

Christine wanted to cover her ears against Raoul's words. Was he blaming _her_ for Papa's death? If she had stayed behind instead of running away, would her father still be alive? Maybe Plamondon would never have pulled that trigger if she had been standing in the way…

Raoul sighed, thumping the back of his head against the seat as he stared up at the darkness of the carriage's roof. "What am I without this weapons contract, Lotte? I won't be allowed to live off my family's funds forever. I have little other resources to my name. I did try other avenues of achieving my goals, but I have been blocked every step of the way. Now, I see little other recourse than to approach the man himself. With a little help from your friend, Martel will _have_ to turn over his company's plans to me."

He glanced at her. "I don't like the look you are giving me, my sweet Lotte. Even you have turned against me, beacon of kindness that you are, haven't you? I once thought you on my side, even if Charles disapproved."

Christine could bear this drivel no longer. The truth spilled out from her like a dam being broken. "You are not the man I thought you were, Raoul. You took my faith in you and twisted it. You charmed me, pretended to help my father for your own gain, manipulated me from the moment we met. Even before I stepped foot in Paris, you were considering the ways in which you might use me to your advantage."

She nearly vibrated with rage. Her hands turned into fists, the leather of her gloves stretching tight across her knuckles. Her trust in him was entirely broken. "Because of your actions, my father is dead. Because of your obsession with Martel and his company, you have done your best to destroy everything and everyone I hold dear. What you are doing to Erik is beyond cruelty. You have kidnapped me, broken into a bank, and now you speak of hurting yet another person for your own benefit. I do not even _recognize_ the man you are anymore!"

Her voice rang out into the night, her chest heaving with the force of her words being set free. For the longest time, he did not move. Then, all he did was turn his eyes to look at her. The withering expression upon his face was the look of someone who knew she was right.

"You have changed, Christine," he said softly.

"And perhaps you have not changed at all," she spat.

He settled back against the seat. He had no reply to that.


	18. Martel

**Oh, it has been SO LONG since I last published! The end of the year has sucked my creativity dry, I'm afraid, but there are less than two weeks of teaching left. The good news is that I tend to be wildly productive in the summer. Huzzah! I hope this chapter is at least somewhat worth the wait.**

* * *

 **Chapter 18: Martel**

The horses drove on, hooves beating into the muck that was quickly overtaking the road. While the rain had returned to a drizzle some time ago, the deluge had done its worse; the carriages simply could not manage the softened ground. Several times, the wheels became stuck in the mud, and Raoul's men had to get out to pry them free. On the third time, Raoul pounded the side of the carriage with his fist, calling for them to halt.

"And here is where we walk," Raoul said to Christine.

He unlatched the door to step out. Christine caught his sleeve, ignoring the frown he gave her. "Raoul-"

"For what it is worth," he said, "I _did_ have a great liking of you once."

She shook her head. "No manner of words will be able to change my opinion of you. We are far past that point. But, Raoul – whatever you are planning now with Monsieur Martel, there is still time to turn back. We can still go home."

He looked back at her with such distain that she almost let go of him. "You say that so easily, so firm are you in your misguided convictions. My dear, you do not even _have_ a home to go back to."

The words more than stung. She did not try to resist as he tugged his jacket free of her clutching fingers and stepped out of the carriage.

If he tried to force more tears from her, they did not come. Christine had far passed the point of weeping for the past this night.

She followed him out of the carriage and gave up on keeping her skirt's train out of the muck. Even though the rain had ceased, the heavy cloud cover and thick forest around them meant that they were shrouded in darkness. Their lanterns struggled to provide more than a few meters of light.

Her heart beat against her breast with a mixture of feelings. More than anything, however, she wished that Nadir Khan would arrive and change the dreadful course of this night. She peered into the night back the way they had traveled, her ears straining for any sound of approaching horses. She heard nothing but their own animals shifting in the muddy ground.

Behind them, she saw Erik step out of the second stagecoach, his arms still shackled behind his back. He was careful not to look at her, but she understood why now. Any hint of attention between them could draw Raoul's ire. She did not want to give Raoul a reason to target Erik more than he already was, and she knew that Erik felt the same concern for her.

Raoul gestured ahead of them. "Martel's chateau lies a half kilometer in that direction. Two of you need to stay back and work on getting these carriages rolling, get them off the main road. The rest of you are with me."

There were murmurs of agreement. Soon, they had an organized line to walk the rest of the way to Martel's home

Christine surveyed the men with narrowed eyes. "You have all lost your minds," she said. "Are you simply blindly following whatever he tells you to do, even at the expense of your own good judgment?"

One of the men chuckled. "Mademoiselle, you have no idea what you are talking about."

Christine's face heated, but she did not relent. "His payment must include the use of your moral character, for that is what you are now jeopardizing. You have already aided him in burglarizing a bank and abducting the two of us. Now, you will terrorize an innocent man on his own property?"

Raoul raised his eyebrows at the men, as though awaiting a response. Christine's interjection seemed to have no effect, and she was pointedly ignored. One of the men gave Erik a shove to keep him walking at the forefront of the group. Raoul took hold of Christine's upper arm as though she might try to dart away.

"You presume, Christine, that they did not already know what they might be asked to do tonight," he said. "Give me far more credit in those I choose to have around me, if you would."

Christine pushed down her rising fear. Everything was unraveling around her, options being blocked at every turn. Raoul had the key to Erik's manacles in his breast pocket, but while she thought she might be able to wrestle it from him if she caught him off-guard, she would never be able to get the key to Erik without endangering both of their lives.

Soon, the road through the forest ended, the copse of trees abruptly giving way to a manicured lawn that stretched into the gloom before them. Raoul clicked his tongue with disdain, then gestured for them to continue. Martel's estate was surrounded by a well cared-for garden with rows of neat hedges and stone walking paths. Christine was grateful to step out of the mud and onto a firmer surface, but the act was surreal. This was a beautiful place she would have liked to have visited in the daylight; now, it was transformed by the eeriness of the night.

The chateau itself rose out of the darkness. The white marble nearly glowed against the low-lying clouds, but Christine could make out few features beyond high columns and many tall windows. A few lights burned in the windows, and Raoul motioned for the men to lower their own lanterns until their odd party was safely obscured from sight.

They entered a side courtyard. Ivy climbed the high stone walls that hid them from the chateau's windows. They finally stopped here, and the stillness of the night pressed in around them. Even the insects concealed in the darkness seemed to hush.

Wide-eyed, Christine felt a fresh surge of panic. They were truly here, at Martel's home.

"R-Raoul," she said, testing the hold he had on her arm. "Stop this madness at once! Do you even realize how senseless this is? We are sneaking around in the middle of the night and _for what_? To satiate your craving for reputation and fortune?"

He jerked her closer, his fingers digging into the giving flesh of her upper arm. "You _will_ be silent. I have had enough of your lashing tongue." He pulled out the handkerchief from his pocket that he had used to tend to her cheek, twisted it into a long length, and held it to her face.

He meant to gag her! Christine backed away in fright now that he had relinquished his hold on her arm. She saw Erik's eyes dart to her, and he took a step in her direction; one of the men at his side cuffed him in the side of the head with the butt of a pistol in warning. She tried to get herself under control, knowing any reckless actions on her part could endanger them both.

Erik's voice slid into her ear. "You must stop this at once."

She did, her chest rising rapidly with her pants. "Please, Raoul, you have to understand how insane all of this is."

He had no reply for her. While he stepped toward her again with the handkerchief, one of the other men came and bound her wrists together in front of her, then held the end of the rope like a leash. Raoul secured the gag around her head, the rough linen cutting into the edges of her mouth, the scent of the alcohol from earlier sharp in her nose. Erik stared at her, chest heaving for a moment before he masterfully hid his own response to her binding.

"Don't get yourself killed," Raoul said, tenderly brushing aside a few strands of her hair that had fallen into her face. "All I need you to do is stand here." He turned from her and addressed the men. "Our next course of action should already be clear. Once Martel is in our midst, Dubois will question him until he provides me with the information I need. It is, of course, in his best interest to give up that information without trouble."

Raoul leveled his eyes upon Erik, who gazed back without emotion. "I believe you know your part in this." He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and glanced at the time. "You have five minutes to bring Martel back here. I shouldn't have to tell you what is at stake if you fail or cause trouble."

"I will need my hands," Erik said.

Everything about him, from his voice to his posture, belayed a dispassionate calmness. But Christine remembered his words from earlier. He would take any chance he was given to end Raoul's life, but he would also do what he was asked until he had the opportunity.

Christine gave a small shake of her head, pleading with Erik to do anything but Raoul's bidding. Erik deliberately did not look her way again. One of Raoul's men stepped over and released the chain from one of his wrists, allowing him freedom of movement with his hands. Immediately, he stepped back into the shadows, his form bleeding into the darkness in the direction of the chateau. Raoul ordered his men to spread out in case Erik tried anything, but he himself kept his eyes upon his pocket watch.

Those five minutes passed with agonizing slowness. Raoul began to grow restless, shifting upon his feet before starting to pace in front of Christine.

Then Erik emerged, shoving a stumbling figure in front of him. The man seemed to be older, slightly round about the waist. His hands were bound in front of him, and a pillowcase was pulled over his head. He was dressed in his nightclothes, an unfastened robe hanging from his shoulders; it was the tie of his robe around his wrists.

Dubois stepped forward, gesturing angrily. "Did you betray us, corpse? You took longer than five minutes!"

"This estate is large," Erik replied coolly. "The initial request was unreasonable."

"You took the time to let him put on a robe."

The slight rising and falling of broad shoulders. "I considered the fact that you would not want him to catch his death out here."

The man balled up a fist to respond, but Raoul held up a hand, quieting him without a word. Christine quickly realized this was a scenario with which they – including Erik – were already familiar. Raoul himself had not participated in interrogations before, the role delegated to those he hired. This was why Erik had not known his identity before Christine had named him. Christine supposed Raoul was long past the point of not getting his own hands dirty.

"Get to it," Dubois told Erik.

Erik placed a hand upon Martel's shoulder, and the older man jumped at the contact, stumbling a bit as Erik fisted the loose material of his robe. When he spoke, he sounded like he was reciting a script he had often used before.

"You are going to be asked questions," Erik said. "If you answer them, you will remain unharmed. If you do not, I will find ways to force the answers from you. How difficult this is entirely depends upon you." He glanced up at Dubois, who moved closer.

But Martel jerked in Erik's grip, trying to shrug him free. "How dare you come into my home and threaten me in this way!"

Erik delivered a swift kick to the back of Martel's legs, sending him collapsing to his knees in a thud of bone upon stone. Christine shouted behind her gag, and Raoul stepped up behind her, keeping her close to him should she try anything.

"Where are your plans for smokeless gunpowder?" Dubois asked.

Martel snarled behind the pillowcase concealing his vision. "I will not be intimidated nor treated in this manner. I will tell you nothing."

Erik boxed him in the side of his head, a blow that had to make his head rattle. Dubois repeated the question, but Martel was silent. Though his chest heaved and he grunted with each of Erik's strikes, he remained mute, refusing to answer any questions.

Erik pulled back for a moment, appearing to collect himself. His eyes flicked, once, to Christine.

"I have warned you," he said to Martel.

Christine's eyes widened in horrible realization. If Martel would not speak after being beaten, then Erik would escalate his tactics. Her bound hands rose to tug at her gag, but a sharp pain in the back of her scalp made her give a muffled cry. Raoul growled a threat in her ear, his fingers cruelly fisting her hair and wrenching until she kept her hands downward.

Erik bent, slid his fingers around one of Martel's, and jerked.

Martel let out a wheeze of pain, doubling over. The little finger on his left hand now jutting out at an odd angle. Christine screamed, the sound strangled by the gag. This, _this_ was what Erik had done for Raoul before? What cruel things had he inflicted upon those he had interrogated? How much fear he must have caused!

But she remembered what Erik had told her about his time under the Vicomte's employment, how he had cooperated until the work had grown too gruesome. He had stopped because he had wanted to change, and he had been chained into the basement because of it.

And now, he was only doing this for her, because _she_ had so foolishly put herself in danger.

Raoul's hand at the nape of her neck tightened in warning.

"I suggest you answer, monsieur," Erik said to Martel. "You have more fingers to lose."

Martel gasped, clearly hurting. "Wound me if you feel you must. I do not speak to filth."

Behind her, Raoul tugged on her hair, forcing her to cringe backward against him. Her scalp ached, but she kept her pleading eyes upon Erik. He had straightened for a moment. Although he had already broken one of Martel's fingers, he seemed to be hesitating.

"What are you waiting for?" Dubois barked. "Get on with it!"

When Erik did not respond, Raoul yanked Christine by her hair. She knew why – the more Raoul threatened her, the more he hoped to force Erik to do his bidding.

But she was _through_ being a pawn.

In one swift motion, she wrenched the gag free of her mouth. "I am not worth this, Erik!"

Raoul wrenched her back, and she let him cover her mouth with her hand. She stared at Erik with pleading eyes, and finally, he lifted his own to meet hers. The look she saw there, the shadowed gold entwined with something profound, made her suck in a sharp breath.

He had already decided.

"Close your eyes, dear one," he said in her ear.

 _No!_

Christine jerked her head to the side, biting at Raoul's fingers and causing him to hiss and step away for a moment. "I understand!" she said to Erik.

And in that moment, she did. He was doing this for her. All of her life, people had made sacrifices for her. Her parents had traveled across Europe for their art, but they had always included her and always ensured that they had a safe place to sleep at night. When necessary, they starved so she could eat, and when her mother passed, her father had continued, taking any job he could find to keep Christine's very life going.

When she had met Erik, she had thought at first that her intention had to be to help _him_ , imprisoned as he had been. But she had been relying upon him the same that she had upon her father.

 _"I am going to kill him."_

Erik had spoken plainly of his intentions, and what had she done but throw that back in his face with her disdain.

"I understand," she said, softer. "I truly do. And I take back my words from earlier – I _would_ forgive you if you had to make such a decision. Just as I hope you will forgive me."

Those flecks of gold widened. "Christine-"

Raoul snarled and lunged for her. His fingers entangled in her hair once again, but before he could silence her, Christine found her voice and her courage. There was one thing that Raoul seemed to value above everything else in this venture, something he had fought to preserve.

His anonymity.

"Monsieur Martel," she shouted before Raoul could fully close his fingers upon her mouth. "The Vicomte de Chagny is the man who has taken you from your home! He is responsible for all of this!"

Erik leapt into action immediately. In one swipe, he had removed the pillowcase from Martel's head. While the man blinked in the low light of the lanterns, Erik pried at the tie at his wrists, and before long, Martel was rising to his feet and leveling a glare upon Raoul.

Erik lunged for Dubois, the closest of Raoul's men, but they were ready. Two clicks of hammers being drawn brought him to a halt. One pistol aimed at him while the other focused upon Martel. Erik splayed his hands to either side, body supplicant but eyes ablaze.

"That is enough!" Raoul barked.

Christine felt a sharp sting at the side of her throat. She raised her bound hands to touch Raoul's wrist, but she did not dare tug at his grip on the knife he held. "Raoul," she managed to choke.

"Easy, Vicomte," Erik said, voice calmer than the expression in his gaze.

Raoul hissed in Christine's ear. "Don't speak to me as though I was a dog! My hand has been forced to her throat."

To Erik's side, Martel adjusted his rumpled attire, smoothing his robe atop his nightclothes. "Monsieur le Vicomte, seeing your face only confirms what I believed. I have long suspected that you have been trying to appropriate my company, but I never imagined you would sink to such depths."

Behind her, Raoul vibrated with tension. The knife pierced the skin, and Christine felt the warmth of her own blood tickle its way down her neck.

"I wouldn't have had to resort to this if everyone would just _cooperate_ ," Raoul said.

"Cooperate with what?" Martel replied calmly. "You have systemically tried to undo what I have built from nothing my whole life. You have done your best to tarnish your own name with no help from me. And now look at your pitiful self – holding a knife to the throat of a girl who is clearly already in mourning."

"All I want are your plans for smokeless gunpowder! They weren't at the bank, so they must be here. Produce the plans, let me walk away with Christine here as my insurance, and you will never see my face again."

Erik straightened, hands lowering to fists at his sides. "Vicomte, you will never leave here with her."

Christine's heart thudded wildly in her chest. The knife at her neck stung, but the blood had already stopped flowing. She could see now that this would not end well, that Raoul had never had any intention of letting her go while Erik was in a position to come after him. Raoul needed her at his side to keep the Phantom at bay.

Holding as still as she could, she buried her wrists inside her skirts and began to twist within the tie that held them together. Her small palms folded together to near the same size as her thin wrists. If she could only gain a bit more time to work them free…

Martel's eyes dipped downward, then leveled back upon Raoul. "You didn't find the plans at the bank because there never _were_ any such plans. I planted that information, Monsieur Vicomte, after I became suspicious of you."

"You're lying!" Raoul said, voice breaking.

"Why would I lie? You have that young woman with a knife to her throat. It is in my best interest to tell you the truth: there never were any plans for smokeless gunpowder drifting around. I settled the contract with the French government months ago. You see, Vicomte, that you never had any chance of undermining me."

Christine felt one of her wrists begin to slip from the binding. She stared at Erik, urging him to realize what she was about to do. With two pistols in play, they would have little time to make any kind of move.

Raoul's eyes were darting around as he tried to contemplate Martel's words. "I will not be manipulated by such lies."

"Then consider this, monsieur," Martel said. "Why would I tell everyone I had hidden valuable plans that could ruin my company if ever stolen? Why would I create a story about a key that did not exist if not to force your deception to the surface?"

"But the key existed!" Raoul spat. "Charles Daaé had it on his person!" He pulled on Christine's hair, tilting her head backward painfully, but at least moving her away from the knife's piercing edge. "He gave it to his daughter to hide it from me."

Martel's brown eyes shifted to Christine. "An error in my choice of deception, to be sure," he said, his voice thick with sadness. "And one that I hope to remedy."

As soon as Christine felt the knife leave her throat, she saw her opportunity. She slipped one of her wrists from the truss and then pretended to stumble back into Raoul. In this instance, her thick skirts were an advantage; her bustle knocked him unsteady and made it difficult for him to keep his arms around her. She latched onto his wrist with the knife with both hands and slammed the back of her head up and into his face. His nose gave way against her skull, and the unmistakable sound of crunching bone echoed in the night.

Raoul howled and released her hair to clutch at his face. Red streamed from between his fingers as Christine darted away.

Her ears awaited the sound of pistols being fired. She had been so concerned with getting away from Raoul that she had not focused upon what was happening across the courtyard. Staggering, she refocused in time to see that Martel wrestled for control of the gun of the lackey standing nearest him.

She heard the skittering of metal across stone and a pistol came to rest at her feet; she followed the line it had traveled and then glanced quickly away again to avoid seeing Dubois's body drop to Erik's feet.

The pistol felt warm in her hand, a thing alive. Straightening upon trembling legs, she aimed the weapon at Raoul, who was cursing and cupping his broken nose. She raised the barrel, looked across its smooth surface to the man who had tried to take everything from her. She could tighten her finger, squeeze the trigger, and end it all right now. And she should, she _should_ take the life of this man who had taken her father's, who had tried to take hers, who had threatened the man she longed for with all her heart.

The barrel shook.

Somewhere, sounding far away, she heard the trample of hoofs upon wet ground. Or perhaps that was the blood pounding in her ears, the rush of something wild skittering through her veins and slicking her palms with sweat.

Raoul adjusted his grip on the knife. His blue eyes leveled upon her. "Lotte," he began.

And a shot rang out, burning her ears like she had just touched a flame.

* * *

 **Next up: a much-needed E/C reunion...**


	19. Heal

**I appreciate your continued faith in where this story is headed. Thanks for trusting me!**

* * *

 **Chapter 19: Heal**

The last time Christine had heard the explosion of gunpowder set aflame, of a bullet sent hurling on a trajectory meant to kill, her father had fallen victim to one of those shots. Two shots, one for her father, and one for his murderer, had happened floors above her, and they still had sent her racing into a panic.

This time, the first round made her entire body flinch. Her toes gripped the inside of her shoes in case she had to flee or fight; her muscles bunched as they held the pistol straight and aligned with the line of her arm; her eyes blinked as rapidly as the shot had sounded.

A shot, deafening in its closeness – how could guns be _so loud_ – and she blinked. One moment, Raoul stood before her, knife poised on the brink of madness. And _blink_ , he staggered back, blood flooding to fill the hole in his chest, his lips parted as though to speak, and he fell to the courtyard stone with a sickening thump.

Acrid smoke filled her nose, but it was not from the pistol she clutched.

 _Blink_ again, and her eyes cut to the side, to Martel holding the other weapon, Raoul's man wheezing a meter away. When the man tried to stumble to his feet, fist raised, Martel swerved the gun around, and Christine did not see the second shot, the thud of it in her heart enough to show her that it was over.

Dimly, somewhere far away, she could still hear the trumpeting sound of hooves growing ever closer.

A gentle weight settled on her fist, on her fingers curved into talons around the trigger of the pistol. "Christine," Erik said, applying a slight pressure to encourage her to lower her arm. "Christine, you do not need this any longer."

She breathed in a sob and let him take the weapon from her. He stepped between her and Raoul lying upon the ground, and she let him tilt her head to the side to examine the cut on her neck.

"Is he – Raoul?" she gasped. "Is he-?"

"If he is not dead, he will be soon. There is nothing that can be done to save him." _Or will be done_ , she heard in the echo.

She shuddered and leaned into him, her forehead brushing against his chest. "I hear someone coming."

"The gendarmerie, at last."

This snapped her back into focus. Behind her, Martel had bent and pressed the fingers of his uninjured hand to the neck of the man at his feet. He nodded to himself and straightened, glancing at the two of them. He still carried the pistol he had used, and while Erik held the other, Christine feared what might happen in the midst of more chaos. After all, it _was_ Erik who had dragged him from his bed in the middle of the night, who had beaten him, who had –

She grasped onto Erik's arm. "You must go. They shouldn't find you here."

"I will not leave you."

"Please, Erik." Any moment, the police would arrive. Their whistles could now be heard, cutting through the darkness as they approached. "I am fine, I promise. I am safe now. _Go_!"

She pushed at him. Although he continued to hesitate, he had to see that she was right. He took her hand and pressed her knuckles to the mouth portion of his mask before sliding into the foggy shadows beyond the lamp light.

At first, she feared Martel would object or aim that pistol in Erik's direction; he had every reason to. However, he merely watched Erik vanish.

Once he was gone, Martel turned to Christine. "I should have shot him," he said, voice mild. "However, he was right about the police."

"Pardon, monsieur?"

Martel motioned in the direction of the approaching commotion. "He explained if I could last long enough, the gendarmerie might arrive in time to save my life. They are overdue, I must say. I will have to explain how I cleaned up this mess myself."

Christine hestitated, then stepped forward. "Please, monsieur. My friend… he exists outside the typical boundaries of society, and mentioning him would only cause confusion. Everything he did tonight, he did so to protect me. Please – when you speak of what happened here, at least leave the detail of his mask out of your explanation."

"As far as I am concerned," Martel said, snorting, "three men attacked me. Those three men lie dead here before us. I do believe I would be dead myself or injured beyond a broken finger if it were not for you and your _friend_. And at least he broke it cleanly." He gave her a hard stare. "Your name is Christine. You are Charles Daaé's daughter, aren't you?"

"I-I am. But how did you know?"

Martel raised both of his hands, facing the incoming horses. "A conversation for later. Gentleman!" he shouted. "You are late!"

A half-dozen riders swept into the courtyard, fanning outward, the horses kicking mud from their hooves as they stamped upon the stone. Each carried a lantern, sending the square awash with dull light. Christine shielded her eyes, but in truth, she did not want to see the splatters of blood on the men lying prone.

She picked out Monsieur Khan immediately from the others. His brown suit and embroidered cap distinguished him from the other men clad in blue uniforms with brass buttons in rows down the chest. He dismounted from his horse before the animal had even fully halted and dashed over to Christine.

His hug surprised her, his large arms a welcome encircle. She knew so little about this man and his history with Erik, but in the small time she had known him, she already understood why Erik had placed his faith in him. Khan's affection for Erik had so easily extended to Christine, and Erik must have recognized his loyalty would as well. If Erik was willing to entrust Khan with both of their lives, then Christine could depend upon him for almost anything.

"Forgive me, mademoiselle," he said, stepping back a pace. "I am just so thrilled to find you alive and seemingly well! You _are_ well, aren't you?"

"Yes, Monsieur Khan," she said, managing a twinge of a smile. "My injuries are not serious, but Monsieur Martel fared worse than me. He needs medical care."

The other officers were already on it after a quick explanation from Martel about his identity and what had happened here. Their tone had changed immediately after learning that Martel was the master of this estate.

Christine laid her hand on Khan's arm. "Monsieur Khan, there are at least three other men with two carriages back in the woods."

"We encountered them on our way here trying to move the carriages off the road. They have been arrested. I had no idea what we might find once we arrived." His relief was evident, but she did not disregard the way he glanced into the gloom, searching.

" _All_ of us are alive," she said, glancing herself in the direction Erik had fled. Khan laid his hand atop hers and squeezed in understanding.

One of the other policemen walked over to them, and he was busy taking notes. "I will need a detailed explanation of what has happened with the Vicomte, starting from when you first encountered him in Paris. It seems Khan's hunch about his intentions were correct, but I need an official statement from you, mademoiselle."

Martel cleared his throat. He had turned his pistol over to one of the men, and his broken finger was now bandaged straight to his others. "The girl has had quite a fright, officer. She can barely manage to stay upright, much less form a _detailed explanation_. Mademoiselle Daaé, if it is acceptable to you, my home is yours. The gendarmerie may return in the morning once you have rested, hmm?"

Christine could do little more than nod. Martel was obviously a man used to giving orders and having them followed, but he was right. Her legs wobbled unsteadily, and now that the danger had passed, she could feel exhaustion dragging her downward. She had spent so long with her heart racing that she felt runover in its wake.

"Will you be all right here, Christine?" Khan asked, eyebrows drawn together. "I am happy to give you needed rest before we proceed."

"I think that is wise," she replied, "and I will be fine here for the night."

Someone approached Martel – an older gentleman who appeared to have hastily pulled on his clothes. Martel instructed him to wake the household, and Christine guessed he must be the butler.

"No doubt all of you are far from home," Martel said to the officers. "I am certain you have much to do tonight, but I will set up rooms and provisions for you in the east wing should you need them."

"Thank you, monsieur," Khan said. He gave Christine's hand a squeeze, murmured a promise to see her tomorrow, and rejoined the others.

"Give me a moment," Christine said to Martel.

Swallowing hard, she approached the figure lying still in the edge of lamplight. Raoul had fallen backward when he was shot, his legs straight before him, his arms to either side of his torso. He could have been sleeping, except his blue eyes stared unseeing, giving away his lifelessness. Christine reached out to close them, but she snatched her hand away on second thought, not wanting to feel his cooling skin.

Instead, she delicately lifted the edge of his coat and, careful to avoid the blood, felt the inside pocket for the key to Erik's cuffs. It was still there. She plucked it out, tucked it under her bodice, and straightened.

Her lips parted to say something to him, but Raoul was already gone. Anything she might have said for her own peace of mind, she had already said earlier. In the end, Raoul had known how she had felt about his actions, and yet he had done them anyway. Christine no longer needed to dwell upon what had passed between them.

"Finished?" Martel asked.

She nodded. What she needed now was to remove herself from the sight of the body of the man she had known.

They entered the side entrance of the chateau, walking into a flurry of activity. The women still wore nightcaps to cover their undone hair, and even the men carried linens to and fro. Martel spoke to a footman as they passed, who hastily arrived with a single glass of amber liquor that Martel downed in one gulp.

"Forgive me for the lack of formality," Martel said, setting the glass back upon the tray. "Tonight's events have me all out of sorts."

"I cannot imagine why," Christine said, lips curling upward. "Your home is beautiful, by the way." She meant it. The night did much to hide the expansive room and detailed wall hangings, but she could tell just from the glimpses she stole.

"I will give you a tour in the morning. For now, I must see this business with the gendarmerie settled. Phillis here will escort you to a room and make sure your needs are met. Goodnight, Mademoiselle Daaé."

His demeanor was crisp, but she could see the way he rubbed at his eyes and held his injured hand to his chest. They were both weighed down by their exhaustion, and she eagerly turned to follow the chambermaid, who led her upstairs and down a hall.

Upon entering a room, the woman immediately set to stoking a fire in the cold hearth. The small room contained little more than a bed, armoire, and dressing table with mirror, but the blankets upon the bed looked fresh, and warm water streamed in the basin.

The chambermaid swept out as soon as she had a fire roaring, but another soon entered through the open door. Draped across her arms was a set of clothing and a wrapper in pale pink.

She curtsied and laid the items on the bed. "Monsieur apologizes for having no mourning clothing for you. If you would leave your items outside your door, we can have them clean by tomorrow."

Christine looked down at herself, at the mud caked upon her shoes and dampening her black skirts. "Thank you," she said. "I will do that."

"Do you need help undressing, mademoiselle?"

"No, I can manage."

The woman curtsied again. She held the door open for another servant who entered with a tea tray. Soon, they left, and Christine locked the door behind them, wanting no more company that night.

At least not from strangers.

Her gut ached with worry, and she felt herself start to come apart now that she was alone. She bent and unlaced her boots, and she left these near the door, not wanting to track mud across any carpets. Her fingers shook, but she managed to unbutton her bodice; the key she had taken from Raoul's body pinged upon the floor, and she placed it on the bed.

She blinked away tears and quickly stripped away the rest of the evidence of her ordeal that night. Once she had slipped on the fresh chemise and buttoned the pink wrapper throat to ankle, she placed her clothes in the hall and spun back around to lock the door again.

Her chest heaved. What was wrong with her? Everything was over; she should be _relaxing_ now.

The water in the basin was still warm. She dipped her hands within and scrubbed with the bar of ivory soap left for her, and she gave her face the same treatment until the tendrils around her face were dripping.

When she rinsed, she spied a swirl of pink in the water. She had forgotten about the cut on her neck. Raoul, _Raoul_ had held a knife to her throat, had intentionally hurt her – Raoul, the man she had once thought might be her future.

An oval mirror hung above the basin. She looked into it now, not quite recognizing the pale face that stared back at her with wide, frightened eyes. The small line of red at her neck was bleeding again. The bruise upon her cheek was swollen and purple.

She had come so close to dying today.

Perhaps that truth had only now become reality for her.

When the hardness of a knuckle struck the window pane, she did not hesitate to toss open the curtains, unlatch the shutters, and throw open the window with a panicked force that startled even her. Erik had only just stepped into the room, and she could not wait; the solid panel of his chest was firm under her cheek, his white shirt damp beneath her hands, but she did not care. She clung to him with all the force of someone drowning, hearing from faraway his hiss of pain at her tight grip.

She was not the only one whose life had been in danger today.

She sprang away just as swiftly. "God, Erik, I am sorry! I did not _think-_ "

"Hush," he said, easing the rest of the way within the room. He closed the window and righted the curtains, and she found herself within his arms again, this time with less crushing force and more tenderness.

"I had hoped you would come to me," she said, muffled against his shirt.

"Of course, little bird." She felt one of his hands stroke her loose hair. "You are shaking, Christine – why?"

But she had felt the manacles still encasing his wrists. Giving a little cry, she stepped back from him and found the key on the bed.

"I thought you might need this." She felt his eyes following her, but she focused on the task at hand. However, when she tried to use the key, she could not seem to steady her grip.

"Allow me," he said, enveloping her hand with his own. "Come, you are exhausted, and I still need to examine your own wounds." He led her to the bed, where they both sat side by side.

Christine would not let him take the key from her, tightening her grip upon it. "I can do it, Erik."

He did not protest anymore, instead holding out his wrists for her perusal. The process took far longer than it should have. She ignored the heavy presence of his searching gaze upon her. The relief she felt when the second cuff gave way brought tears flooding her eyes, and she flung the pair of manacles away where they collapsed to the floor.

Cool, dry hands cupped her face, thumbs sluicing away her tears. Her vision was too blurry to focus upon anything but his touch, so she closed her eyes as he examined her injured cheek. His fingers tilted her head up and to the side, his examining gaze hot and intent upon the cut on her neck.

The seething noise that shot out of him made her open and readjust her eyes on him. His golden eyes burned into her, narrowed in intense fury. He had every right to be angry with her; her foolish decisions could have cost both of them their lives.

Her throat closed up, but she forced the words out. "I am so sorry, Erik. I was such a fool. I should never have met him in the garden, never should have trusted him. I thought I could discover what the key unlocked, and that would be the end of it. Instead-"

He silenced her with two fingers upon her lips. The intimate touch startled her into complacency, and as quickly as he had placed his fingers, he snatched them back again.

"What is done is done," he said. "My anger is not directed at you, but at him. Would that he was still alive that I could end him with my own hands, that I myself could enact vengeance upon him for the distress and hurt he has caused you. You owe me no more apologies. Indeed, it is I who should be apologizing. As soon as I realized that the man you knew as Raoul was the Vicomte who had imprisoned me, I should have told you."

"Why did you not?"

He blew out a breath behind his mask. "It is late, Christine. I am not prepared for such a conversation, and you should rest and let that cut heal."

He was leaving?

Feeling her heart begin to race again, she watched as he rose from the bed. He kept his long torso curled inward, and now that he had stepped back, she could see the stains upon his shirt – the imprint of boots dotted one side, and she could see at least one spot of dark red upon the fabric.

"You are injured!" she cried, lurching to her feet and grasping onto his shirt. This was all her fault, and what had he told her earlier? That his ribs had been cracked? He had been beaten once again, treated horribly, because of her. Maybe he said that she did not need to apologize anymore, but that did not erase what had happened.

She did not realize her fingers were set upon the buttons at his throat until his hands upon hers stilled her.

" _Christine_ , I will heal. I am fine."

She did not release her grip near his collar. "How can you possibly be fine? And I know – I know you hide from me, you don't let me see, but I _need_ to see. I need to check that you are fine for myself before – before I can even begin to believe that this is all over."

Was she even being clear? She was not sure, her tongue feeling too loose, her throat too squeezed closed. She wished she could see his expression, the tightening of the skin around his eyes the only indication she had that he was irritated with her.

But his hands fell away, and before she could reconsider, she was undoing the buttons beginning at his throat. She managed the first few, and then her trembling made her fumble on the next. What was she doing – _what was she doing?_ She had wanted to see with her own eyes that he was going to be fine, but she was crossing a line from which she might not ever be able to back away. He loomed so tall against her petite frame, and she wanted nothing more than to set her palms against him, to map with her hands the truth that he was here, and he was _all right_.

His movements jerky, he batted her hands away. In one swift motion, he had untucked his shirt, and his fingers flew as he unbuttoned the rest, splitting his shirt in two halves. Then he settled a fist to either side of his narrow hips and leveled his steely eyes back upon her, waiting.

She stared openly – she had asked for this, had she not? The skin beneath his shirt was nearly as white as the fabric that had parted, a stark contrast with the black oval of his mask. The expanse of flesh rose up and down with his rapid breaths. Ribbons of scars arched across his flesh, remnants of other healed wounds. He was thin, his collar bone jutting across his shoulders, his ribs even bands of bone that curved around a concave stomach. She saw the dusting of light hair just below his belly button, leading into the waistline of his pants.

She snapped her eyes back to his and saw his tumultuous expression swirling in those yellow depths, a mixture of apprehension and anger with a touch of something else.

Fear?

"Y-You said you had cracked ribs?" she asked. "Here?" She moved aside his shirt, revealing more of the dark puddle of bruises extending across his side. The skin had been broken here, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped some time ago.

She moved to skim her fingers, to feel for damage, but he caught her hand.

"As I have said, these injuries are nothing I have not experienced before. It seems a waste to concern yourself with another bout of them now."

"I do not believe it is a waste to care for you, Erik." If she could protect him from the world that would hurt him, she would do so.

"Ah, but it is a misplaced thing." To her shock, he brushed her fingertips across the ripples of bone along his side. "Here," he said, and she felt two knots on parallel ribs. "And here. I have sustained breaks on both ribs." He then repeated the motion on the other side of his chest, to the bottom of his ribcage that curved differently than the rest. "This rib almost punctured my lung. So, as you can see, my dear songbird, I have suffered nothing tonight that is unfamiliar."

"That does not make it any less terrible."

Christine roamed her fingertips along his side. His grip upon her hand did not relax, his broad palm following the movements of her hand. Her fingertips brushed the beginning edges of raised skin, and the feeling reminded her of what she had felt upon his face – twisted, scarred flesh. Was his back covered in scars?

She could scarcely understand what she was doing. He had experienced a lifetime before her, and she felt so utterly young and small before him. How could she possibly puncture the cloud that seemed to hover around him? If she pressed her lips to the smooth expanse of his chest, what would he do?

"You are shaking again," he said, voice soft.

She was. She wanted to run. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to ask about this heaviness in the air between them, if it meant they could step back into what had begun to develop between them before all of this had happened… or if there was now a divide that could not be overcome.

His other hand fingered the lacy trim of her sleeve. "You wear color tonight; however temporary it may be. If I could control this world, I would see that you never have cause to mourn again. I would cease your tears at once."

Her lips parted to reply, and her teeth chattered, loud in the space between them. His eyes swept over her form.

"I feel cold all of a sudden," she said, and her vision started to blur at the edges.

He caught her before she could fall, his arms tense and unyielding under her. "Into bed with you, little bird."

He settled her onto the bed and pulled the blankets high until they touched her chin. The thought crossed her mind that she was still wearing her wrapper, but she still felt so chilly, her limbs quivering with gooseflesh. The fire in the room gave off enough heat that she knew this feeling was not natural, that perhaps she was reacting to the stress of the day.

She might have been embarrassed if it were not for Erik's treatment of her. He sat on the edge of the bed next to her and brushed the hair from her forehead with cool fingers. At some point, he had righted his shirt, the last thing she noticed before her eyelids grew too heavy to open again.

Her voice sounded far away. "I am not so little."

"Oh, but you are."

She was fading, drifting beneath the layers of blankets, soothed to sleep by his stroking fingers across her forehead. Her protest at the moniker smoothed out into nothing as her breathing began to deepen. She was dimly aware of her body sinking deeper into the feather mattress, of Erik shifting and dry lips replacing the fingers at her temple.

His voice landed quiet and secret in her ear. "You are, my sweet love. I am this great, imitative hulk of a man, and you… you are everything."

She struggled to swim to the surface, to reply to his admission and confirm that she had indeed heard him properly. But she was soon swept away into all-encompassing darkness.


	20. Canter

**A larger chapter than usual, but it couldn't be divided. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it!**

* * *

 **Chapter 20: Canter**

Christine woke up warm, her body heavy and relaxed. At first, she could not move her limbs, but as she flexed her hands and feet, she realized she was wrapped within a cocoon of blankets.

She blinked open her eyes. Hazy sunlight peeked through a slit in the drawn curtains, but it was enough light for her to see the dark form beside the bed. Erik sat slumped in an armchair, his long legs stretched before him, his masked cheek resting upon the back of a propped hand. His eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell evenly.

He was asleep.

She did not want to wake him. Lured by the warmth and comfortable softness of the bed, she let her eyes drift shut again.

The next time she woke, it was with a start. She struggled with the weight of the blankets, flinging them off her with panicked, jerky movements, her legs entangled in the layers of her clothing. Her curls sprung freely about her face, blocking her vision.

"Easy, mademoiselle!" Heavy hands settled on her shoulders. "You are safe. It is only me."

"Nadir?" She stared up at him through blurry, sleep-filled eyes. At once, she was aware of her lack of proper clothing, though she was still dressed in a full-length wrapper. Her face heated at her familiarity. "I apologize – Monsieur Khan."

The Persian eased back into the armchair beside the bed. His brown face split with an easy smile. "No need for the formality unless that is simply your preference. I'm sorry for startling you. I promised Erik I would sit with you until you woke."

"When did he leave?" She sat up more, pulling the blankets to her shoulders. "I woke up earlier and he was here."

"Not long ago. He stayed by your side throughout the night and the morning, until I finally convinced him to take a moment for himself. How are you feeling?"

"A bit sore, actually. Like I have been running for a long time."

Khan scratched at his thick beard. "That may be some leftovers from the shock you experienced?"

"Shock?"

"Erik told me of your symptoms – the confusion, the shaking. Sometimes we react to trauma by our body deteriorating in such a way."

Christine contemplated this, resting her chin on her drawn knees. Her brain had felt so muddled, yet panicked at the same time, and she had been out of control of her body's responses. That was shock? She had not experienced any physical trauma, but the emotional toil of the night must have triggered it. She hid her face in shame.

As if sensing her pensiveness, Nadir said gently, "I heard from Erik about what happened. You were quite brave, especially in the wake of your father passing. You have been through so much in the past weeks. I only hope for brighter paths ahead, hmm?" He clapped his hands to his thighs, blew out a sigh, and stood. "I should let you get dressed. My colleagues are chomping at the bit to get a statement from you. When you are ready, pull the cord there, and a housemaid will escort you."

Khan went to the door, but before he opened it, he paused, turning. He seemed poised on the edge of saying something further, but he shook his head, bid her goodbye, and left.

Christine wished Erik were here; there were so many things she wanted to say to him about the last moments they had shared. There existed a weird push-pull between them, a warring of emotion that neither seemed to know whether to fight or embrace.

 _"I am this great, imitative hulk of a man, and you… you are everything."_

She was certain she had heard him correctly. And truthfully, she did not know _what_ she would say were he here, but at least she would have the opportunity.

Her feet tingled as she lowered them to the floor, her legs threatening to buckle beneath her. Once she settled more weight upon them, her legs grew more accustomed to being upright again, and she was able to stumble to the vanity. The water there was cold but clean, and it felt soothing against the inflamed skin around her eyes. She freshened up the best she could, then found her mourning clothes clean and neatly pressed, laid out for her across the trunk at the foot of the bed.

Oh, how she hated putting on the layers of black crepe, that abhorrent reminder that her father had died mere weeks ago. Even the white petticoats were trimmed in black lace. Her only joyful thought was that Erik had purchased this clothing for her in the name of her father. And at least she had left the hat with the cloaking veil in the carriage, and it did not seem to have tracked her down to here. She pulled on layer after layer, arranging herself into an acceptable figure of mourning. The pale pink wrapper had been a short reprieve.

Her hair had fallen into disarray last night, but she had been provided a hairbrush, so she combed her tresses and arranged them into an acceptable pile atop her head with the pins she had left. While she worked her unruly hair, she examined her reflection. Her busted cheek had faded to a dark purple bruise, and the cut on her neck was now crusted over with a scab.

She could have faired much worse. Her ribs could have been cracked as Erik's had been.

Placing the last of the pins, she shuddered at the remembrance of touching his sides. His skin had been cool beneath her fingertips, but she had been burned in that instant, her insides set aflame by the feel of him. She knew what he had been trying to do – normalize the injuries he had suffered, perhaps even repulse her to the point that she would back off.

He had only succeeded in driving her more determinedly toward him.

She tugged on the cord that would alert the household staff. Moments later, Phillis appeared, curtsying, at the door.

"Monsieur has been waiting for you to begin the noon meal. Do you wish to join him, mademoiselle?"

Christine's stomach rumbled in answer. She pressed a hand upon it. It was already the middle of the day? No wonder she was so famished. "That would be lovely, Phillis. Yes, please."

More of the chateau was visible by day, the heavy curtains thrown wide to emit warming rays of sun through the tall windows. It truly was a lovely home, if a bit too spacious and roaming for Christine's tastes. She liked the coziness of the attic apartment she had shared with Papa. She had even adored Erik's home; for all the lack of natural light, the dark corners and unique furnishings had comforted her during a time when she had needed distraction. And Erik's own space, surrounded by everything uniquely _him_ , had certainly served as a distraction.

Away from his enigmatic home beneath the opera as she had been for a full day, her head was beginning to clear. She could no longer exist in limbo, that space between life with her father and life without. It was time to move forward.

She was not sure _how_.

Phillis said nothing as she led Christine down a curving staircase made of dark mahogany. Christine appreciated the curtesy of no prying small-talk. They crossed the grand foyer that she had entered last night and passed into a dining room. There were two place settings at the end of a long table; a fire drove away the chill in the air, but Christine shivered anyway. The set up reminded her too much of that frightful dinner she had shared with Raoul.

Phillis motioned to the chair on the side of the table and helped Christine sit. "Monsieur Martel will be with you shortly. May I pour you tea or coffee? Maybe wine?"

"Coffee, please," Christine said. Soon, the warm liquid quieted her parched throat, and she cupped the china to ease the trembling in her fingers.

She did not have to wait long. Martel breezed in quickly, a newspaper tucked under his arm, a smile upon his face when he saw her.

"She wakes at last!" he said, crossing the room and sitting in the chair at the head of the table.

Christine's cheeks pinked. "I'm sorry, monsieur, for sleeping so late."

"Ah, no, my apologies. I meant no offense. You needed the rest." He murmured a thanks to the tall footman who poured his own cup of tea. "Actually, Gabin, bring me my scotch. This hand is throbbing."

"How is your hand healing?" she asked, nodding at the white bandage encasing half of the fingers on his left hand.

"Well enough. The pinky may not ever be quite straight again, but I will manage. We faired well, you and I, at the end of it."

"Yes, we did."

Martel poured a finger-width of scotch into his tea. "I underestimated the Vicomte's obsession with taking over my company."

Christine nodded. "Raoul wanted the plans for smokeless gunpowder, and he was convinced that my key unlocked the vault that held them. But you said those plans never existed?"

"This whole debacle is my fault, mademoiselle. I misled the Vicomte about the plans. Oh, the smokeless gunpowder exists! Daresay, we should see most of the French military converted to new weapons by the time two more years pass, and then we will seek to sell the technology to other countries around the world. But I would never have left such sensitive documents lying around, even locked up they may be."

The footman returned with steaming bowls of soup for each of them. The salty liquid was exactly what she needed to stir some life back into her.

"Raoul certainly thought otherwise," she said between spoonfuls.

Martel actually looked abashed. "I claim fault for this. I planted the idea in his mind, letting one of his minions overhear me speaking about a key to a mutual acquaintance. Once the buzz had started, I waited to see if he would act. I never considered the Vicomte would believe your _father_ had access to such papers."

"He became fixated on the idea of this key. Of course, his suspicions came true when my father did indeed have such an item, which he gave me when he passed." She leveled a sharp look at Martel. "You gave him that key."

Martel took a long sip of his tea. "I did," he said with obvious regret. "I had agreed to move the two of you here to my chateau. When we met a few weeks ago, I gave him the key to the vault where I had placed his belongings. You opened it on your way here."

"I did. How did you know?"

"The gendarmerie told me. They have the contents within, but God only knows when they will release them to you."

Christine spooned her soup, lost in thought. How long would it take for her to have her father's artifacts in her possession? She had yet to be able to get his things from the apartment too. She would have to remember to ask Monsieur Khan the next time she saw him.

A thought occurred to her. "Why did you have my father's things? I had not even known he kept the violin."

"Ah, here is where I must betray Charles's confidence in me." A soft, sad smile tugged at Martel's lips. "I have known Charles for nearly half my life."

"Excuse me?"

Martel pushed back his chair – the footman standing at attention quickly came over to assist. He crossed the room to the mantel and picked up a small photograph in a silver, oval frame. Christine stared down at a young man holding a violin, his thick head of hair slicked back. He stood next to another slightly older man, whom she instantly recognized as a young Martel.

When he spoke, his voice was full of fondness. "I met your father about a year before he married, during a business trip with my father to Sweden. Even then, he was talented. I must admit, I was rather enamored with how well he played, so much so that I insisted he travel to France and put on a concert for my family and friends, for which I would pay him handsomely. By the time he made it here, he had a wife in tow."

"My mother."

"Indeed. You remind me of her," he added, smiling. "She had that same wild hair of yours. The two of them performed in this very building, but their style was a bit too… low brow for my circle to be invited back. Instead, I became their patron for the first years of their marriage, seeing them in concert each winter when the aristocracy would move into the city to hibernate. I was devastated when your mother passed."

Christine swept a finger over the image of her father. She barely noticed when the soup was removed and replaced with an assortment of meats and vegetables.

"Why did I never know of you?" she asked softly.

He leaned upon the back of his hand and poked at a piece of scalloped veal. "You likely know this more than most, but Charles was a proud man. He wanted to find his own way in the world without my continued assistance. I only saw you once or twice, a tiny thing with a voice much larger than your size. When Katarina died, he asked me to take the violin from him. I did."

"Was it in the vault this whole time?"

Martel shook his head. "I placed it there only recently. Imagine my surprise when the Vicomte approached me about this Swedish man who wanted a job at the Parisian branch of MASE. I went to Paris immediately, tried to convince him to come here instead. Oh, your father was stubborn." He stumbled over the last word and took a bite of food, seeming to steel himself. "I only wish I had tried harder to convince him earlier than I had. When he said he would come here to the chateau with you, I was overjoyed. Eventually, I thought the both of you would join my family in St-Etienne."

Christine looked down at her plate of food, her appetite gone. "And you gave him the key."

"I did. I thought having agency over whether or not he moved would spur him to make a decision. The cards… simply did not fall quickly enough. His death shocked me."

If only her father had been honest with her, had let her into his plans. However, she could not dwell on what might have happened. Her father was gone. And she understood why he had kept Martel and the violin from her.

She had not felt the same since Papa had died either. Her song was a dried-up thing inside her throat.

Martel continued, "I seek to put to rights the mistakes I made, Christine. If you would agree, I would have you join my wife and daughter in St-Etienne."

She looked at him sharply. "What do you mean, monsieur?"

"Charles died because of my idiocy. I should have gone to the gendarmerie myself rather than try to flush out the Vicomte. Because of my actions, your father was killed. I am a rich man, mademoiselle, and I want to use that money to help you. It would make sense for me to take you in, considering your father was under my employment when he passed."

He hesitated, and Christine sensed that he was trying to tread a delicate topic.

"It… is a harsh world out there for a young, unwed woman. If you have other family –"

"I do not."

He gave a sad sigh. "I am offering to take you under my wing as your guardian. You would have a space within my family and join my daughter in her social engagements. In time, when you are ready and your social status has risen, we can see you wed to someone of principle and worth."

 _Someone of principle and worth._

"That is… very kind," she said.

Inside, she was suffocating under the very idea.

Her father's young face gazed out from the photograph at her elbow. Papa would have wanted her to accept Martel's offer, a matter of propriety, an offer that made sense. Other unmarried women would have been turned out into the streets after losing their single breadwinner. Without status, she could have starved in the wake of Papa's death.

But she had not been without shelter and food and clothing.

 _Erik_ had provided for her, stepping in without question, without demand, without complaint to take care of her every need. Beyond that, he had roused her from despair. Even last night, injured as he had been, he had stayed by her side.

She wanted to immediately decline Martel's generous proposal, and yet she found herself hesitating.

Christine wet the inside of her mouth. "Monsieur, I must take some time to consider your offer."

"I will not rush you," he said, brows drawing together. "However, I would not see Charles's daughter throw away her future. I am not blind, nor am I stupid. I have seen the way you and that masked man interact, and I know very well that his actions were for your well-being. A man like that… if you are even considering…"

"Forgive me for my bluntness, but you do not know him like I do. You may have known my father, but you do not understand what I have been through the past few weeks." Anger swept over her, flushing her cheeks and balling her hands into fists under the tablecloth. "Thank you for the meal and the roof over my head, but I really need some fresh air."

She scooted back her chair before the footman could dart over to move it for her. Martel also leapt to his feet, and he caught her upper arm with his uninjured hand. She whirled to glare at him.

"Let go of me, monsieur."

He loosened his hold but did not relent. "Please, Christine. See reason! You told me yourself that he does not belong among normal people."

"T-That is not what I said!"

"He should be behind bars, as much so as those men the Vicomte hired. A man like that has clearly hurt others before me. I cannot let you throw yourself back into his control."

" _Let_ , monsieur!" She wrenched her arm free of him. "I belong to no one, least of all you. If I did decide to come to live with you, I would still demand my freedom. I am not a little girl to manipulate and mold into a courtier. I will not be auctioned off to one of your rich friends." Her voice trembled. "The choice you offer me is not a choice if you believe I have none!"

"Pardon?"

They both turned to see Nadir Khan standing in the door frame, hat in the crook of his arm. Two spots of dark red enflamed his cheekbones above his beard, the only sign he gave that he had overheard at least part of their conversation.

"Christine," he said, stepping into the room. "Are you all right?"

Martel held his hands up placatingly. "I beg your forgiveness, mademoiselle. I overstepped in my enthusiasm. Please know that I held your father in the highest regard, and I only want to do right by him. It would be your choice. All of it."

Some choice! He believed she had none.

"Christine?" Nadir pressed again.

She wrapped her arms around her middle, expressing a shudder. "I am all right. Are you ready for me to make my statement?"

"Yes. I came to collect you."

As Nadir stepped aside to let her pass though the doorway, Christine turned back around to Martel. "I have a lot I need to consider, monsieur, if your offer is still available after my outburst."

Relief smoothed his face. "Of course it is. I only ask that you let me know your answer by tomorrow. I wish to spend the next month in St-Etienne with my family before I journey to Paris to pick up the pieces left in the Vicomte's wake."

She nodded in agreement, but inwardly, she cringed. To decide her future in one day? She had little time to settle her own thoughts, much less had the time to speak with Erik. Last night, there had been no discussion about what came next. No talk of what might happen between them.

If he heard about Martel's offer, what would he say she should do?

Nadir's eyes flickered to her as he led her to the foyer. "I can see about delaying this if you need some time."

"No, I am fine," she said, raising her chin. "How much of that did you overhear?"

"Ah." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Truthfully, I already knew Martel would offer you a place in his family. He spoke to me this morning about it, thinking you and I close enough for such a discussion. I apologize if that makes you uncomfortable, but he wanted to consult someone over the idea."

Why was everyone always apologizing to her? Was she really that fragile?

Her surge of anger at Martel's comments concerning Erik had left her drained. All she wanted now was to see Erik. She had thought to ask Nadir about her father's belongings, but her mind pushed them aside for now.

A police officer in blue was waiting for them in the foyer. He was pouring over his notes written in a hasty, slanted script, and he stood when they entered.

"Detective Durand," he said, bowing at the waist to Christine. "Thank you for meeting with me."

She addressed him appropriately, her stomach in knots. "You need me to say what happened, detective?"

"Please."

They settled in their seats, Christine with Nadir Khan upon a sofa, the gendarme across from them in an armchair. The man studied her for a moment, then scratched with a pen upon his paper – taking notes, she realized, about her visible injuries.

"Why don't we first take inventory of those marks upon you, mademoiselle? Afterward, you can give me the story of what happened, starting from the beginning of your involvement with the Vicomte de Chagny."

Clasping her hands in her lap, Christine cleared her throat and began.

* * *

Nadir Khan was murmuring with the detective, both men standing in the door frame leading to the foyer. Christine's chemise clung to her torso under her bodice, hot with her nervous sweat. She had little contact with law enforcement during her lifetime. While she knew she was in the right and should have nothing to worry about, she still had heard the quaver in her voice.

Nadir thanked the man, who tipped his hat at Christine and left the room. The Persian blew out a breath.

"There. That is done. I daresay they have enough to convict the Vicomte even without their ensuing investigation into his business dealings."

"What now?" she asked.

"Well… Martel has said he is leaving for St-Etienne next week. As for myself, the gendarmerie is settling in Evry for the time being as they continue their interrogations of the two men we arrested. I will join them there. No doubt I can collect your father's possessions and have them sent to you, now that this is all over."

His warm brown eyes leveled upon her in that way prodding yet respectful way she had come to recognize from him.

"Christine-"

The question bubbled up from within her. "Where is Erik?"

Several hours had passed since she had arisen. The noonday had eased into the steady sun of the late afternoon. It seemed to Christine that whatever Erik had needed to attend to – clothing, food – could have been dealt with ages ago. She understood that Erik wanted to avoid the gawking looks of Martel and his household, as well as the prodding questions of the gendarmerie, but now that she was free of all that, she wanted to find him.

Nadir shifted from one foot to another. Not a man used to hiding his true feelings. He came and sat down beside her again, and startling her, he took one of her hands in his.

"I don't want to overstep my bounds, Christine. But if you need a listening ear, I am happy to oblige."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You still have not answered my question."

"I know," he said, sighing again. "Before I do, I want you to truly consider the offer Martel has made you."

That again!

"I will, I assure you," she said. "However, I need to speak with Erik first."

"Why?"

His question drew her up short. What a simple, loaded word, and yet she could not find her own words to answer him.

Before all of this chaos had happened, she had thought she and Erik were in agreement as to the course their… relationship might take. She remembered oh-so vividly the feel of his lips upon hers, his breath warm upon her face, his body roiling against hers in a desperate clamor for _more_.

If she joined Martel's family, if she let him direct her life, how could she continue with Erik? Martel had been clear that this arrangement would lead to Christine's elevation of social status, and with that, seeking a husband of stature.

Yet every time Christine thought of her future, it was filled not with social engagements and parties and teas with old ladies dressed in finery.

It was filled with Erik.

Nadir gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Are you thinking about joining Martel? He is well known in this area of France. Of all the people I have interviewed, no one has had an unkind word to say about him."

"Where is Erik?" she repeated with more force.

Finally, he relented. "I last saw him in the stables, just before I came to find you."

"Why was he in the stables?"

"He was… trying to select a horse. For travel."

Her eyes widened in alarm. Erik was leaving? He had not said anything to her about trying to return to Paris so soon, and certainly he had not spoken of her going with him. She felt like she was being abandoned. But then, why should she expect any differently? She had given him no promises of the future, and he had not offered any to her.

A thought occurred to her.

"You told Erik about Martel's offer," she accused. She snatched her hand away from him, and the way he let her confirmed her suspicion. "How could you do such a thing?"

His voice hardened. "Erik is a man who has seen much, suffered much, in his lifetime. I would not keep you from him, but I want you to be aware of the reality you are facing."

 _"You are everything."_

That was her reality.

"I need to go to him." She shot to her feet, heart pounding. "I need my cloak and gloves," she said to the room. She stuck her head out the doorway, startling a footman beside the door. "I need my cloak and gloves!"

What if she arrived too late? What if he had already gone? She was not certain what she would say, but she knew that she wanted at least the _opportunity_. As she paced, Nadir tried to continue to reason with her, but she ignored him.

The young man arrived with her items draped over his arm. She swung the heavy black fabric around her shoulders, and ignoring Nadir's shouting protests, she bolted from the foyer, going out the first door she saw that led outside. She knew he meant well, but she also knew that no longer could she rely on anything else except her own beating heart.

The exit spilled onto a credenza that spanned the length of this portion of the chateau. The portico steps fanned down to the inlay stone path. Christine's eyes studied the wide expanse of garden before her, seeing nothing but chiseled stone and manicured lawn beginning to brown with the turning season. Her feet hit the stone, and she stabbed her hands into her gloves as she went. She was almost running, not quite, but fast enough that she had to pick up the front of her skirt to keep from tripping. She did not know whether to go left or right, so she picked a direction and hurried.

As she rounded the side of the chateau, she caught sight of the end of a long, narrow building. She increased her pace, her booted feet pounding upon the path, aware of when the stone turned into packed, fine gravel. Her black cape billowed behind her like gossamer wings, and her fists lifted her heavy skirts above her ankles. The building stretched out before her as she ran – a low, white frame with square windows dotted down the side.

The stable doors were open, and she approached the first, hearing the soft whinnying of horses within. When she stepped inside, dwarfed by the towering flanks of the steeds, she immediately caught sight of a black, wide-brimmed hat just visible above stalls.

She dashed back out, picked up her skirts, and ran.

He stood just inside the shadows of the building, adjusting the saddle across the broad back of a midnight black stallion that stamped impatiently. He was dressed as he had been when she first saw him in the glade, before Raoul had beckoned him to remove all but his shirtsleeves and pants. Christine wondered if Khan had retrieved his clothes there or simply brought him new ones. His attire fit his tall, lanky form perfectly, a dark shape that melded with the ebony flanks of the stallion.

Erik glanced over his shoulder when she approached, and a yellow eye swept up and down her before returning to focus on his task. "I am glad to see you well, Christine."

She drank in the sight of him, black mask and all. But then her eyes flicked to the saddle bags slung across the horse's haunches. She managed to wet the inside of her dry mouth.

"Were you even planning on saying goodbye?"

At that, he froze. Leather squeaked under his gloved hand, a fierce clenching of fingers into a fist. The horse tossed its head.

"I need to return to Paris," he said evenly. "I have business I need to attend to."

"The roads are not passable, Erik. They will not be for several days yet, maybe more if it rains again."

"I am not taking the roads."

" _Erik-_ "

He turned toward her, his eyes flashing through the holes in his mask. "It is time for me to go, Christine. You should understand now why I cannot stay under the roof of this house, why I cannot travel like any other man might travel. You should understand now why I must leave."

The bitterness in his silken voice caused a flutter in her pulse. She wanted to reassure him, but the words for such sympathy dried up within her throat. Not while he stood there prepared to leave her behind.

He took a step forward, reaching out one hand to cup her cheek, eyes softening. "I would have said goodbye, I swear it."

His name caught on a sob. This was it? He would go back to Paris, and she would…

She swallowed. "I will come calling soon. Monsieur Martel says that he is leaving for St-Etienne, but then he promises to go to Paris. When I come back, we can see each other again. You and I. Like before."

Erik spent many long moments adjusting the straps of the saddle upon the stallion and checking that the bridle was positioned correctly. Then he looped his fingers through the bridle near the horse's mouth and gently prodded the beast forward out of the stall. Christine moved to the side of stable entryway as they passed, feeling powerless to stop him. The horse's hooves stabbed the floor of the stable like a drumbeat pounding in her ears.

She followed him out of the stable, not missing the growl he made when she grabbed onto the reins to bring the horse to a halt. "You… do not want to see me again?"

His tall frame was stiff, his back a straight line of tension. His eyes darted about them as though looking to see if he had been seen.

Offhandedly, she wondered if he was stealing this horse.

"What I want does not matter," he finally said.

She clapped a hand to her chest. "It matters to me!"

At once smoldering with anger, he swung a hand to indicate the chateau that rose across the path before them. "You have been offered everything you could desire, Christine; everything that you might have once lost is now being given back to you. Perhaps it is not the family you would have chosen, but it is a family, nonetheless! Why would you throw all of this away?"

"Everything I desire?" She blinked away the tears that threatened to film her gaze. "No one has asked me what I want! They have only given me choices that do not seem like choices at all."

They both grasped onto the reins of the bridle, neither willing to let go first. Erik loomed over her, golden eyes batting back and forth between hers, searching or scrambling for whatever he expected to find. Then he snarled at her, shoved a boot into the stirrup, and swung himself into the saddle, his cloak magnificently fanning over the back of the horse. Christine could not hold onto the rein as he wrenched it from her grip.

When he went to kick in his heels, she swung in front of the horse, blocking him. He pulled sharply, causing the stallion to stumble back a pace.

Although he now towered above her, she lifted her gaze to meet his. "Do not do this thing you do, Erik," she said, voice trembling. "This anger that surfaces when you are frightened, this way you behave when you are trying to force me away. Ask me what _I want_."

He blew out a breath behind his mask. The black stallion pawed at the damp earth, eager to be off. Behind the stable, Christine could see the sun beginning its decent behind the treetops.

When he asked her, she almost did not hear, the words forced through a squeezed throat, her heart pounding in her ears.

"What do you want, little bird?"

"I want to return to Paris with you. I want to go back to your home beneath the Palais Garnier. If you will have me."

The horse could wait no longer. It kicked its heels, forced its way into a canter that brought it speeding past Christine. She swung around just as Erik pulled the creature's head sharply to the side, that large black body pivoting back around to her with a whinny.

He leaned over, hand outstretched toward her. He said nothing, but in that moment, his beckoning hand said everything she needed.

Without hesitation, she grabbed onto that sure grip like it was her lifeline.

He maneuvered so he was clasping her arm, and with one great heave, he swung her onto the horse in front of him in a flurry of too many layers of clothing. She gasped, afraid of falling off, but his hands were heavy and solid about her waist. He had already kicked the beast into a trot as she finished looping her leg around the saddle, sitting astride the horse's back, her skirts spread to either side.

She felt dizzy, the ground too far away. His arms encircled her, one hand grasping the reigns, one splaying long fingers across her belly. Their bodies were far too close in the saddle, their hips cinched together even through the layers that separated them.

"Change your mind, my sweet?" he asked in her ear.

She answered by grasping the reigns above his hands and clicking her tongue. The stallion shot out of the stable yard, ready for wide-open freedom lay spread before them. As Erik's rumble of approval sounded behind her, she urged the beast into a quicker canter.

Soon, they had left the chateau behind them.


	21. Duplet

**Chapter 21: Duplet**

Christine had traveled often with her father. They had traveled across western Europe in whatever matter suited them… and their pocketbooks. More often than not, they joined a band of willing travelers; there was safety among others. Sometimes, they rode on horseback if they were lucky enough to find a pair. Often, they walked.

Once, Charles was given a pair of train tickets as payment for playing at a tavern. The two-hour trip across Britain had been one of the most thrilling moments of her life.

At least, until she had met the man riding behind her.

She never could have imagined a month ago that she would be crossing the French countryside with Erik, the one she had decided she wanted in her life more than, well, than she had wanted anything selfishly for herself.

It had not taken long for the white stone of Martel's chateau to fade behind the tree tops.

Erik rode the horse hard, especially over open fields. She had little time to ponder over her decision to return with him as she dodged branches and clutched the saddle horn for fear of falling off. Erik's hand was a heavy weight upon her hip. His other arm curved around hers to grip the reins, which she had conceded to his charge earlier.

She did not miss the way he glanced behind them, especially when they were outside the cover of trees. His waist would twist ever so slightly, his shoulders turning so he could look at their backs. His paranoia was palpable, a feeling she could almost taste in the air. She remembered the multiple locks that separated his home from the sewer tunnels, and the complex path one had to take to approach his house from above. This was someone used to danger. She surged with desire to ease that constant tension from him.

She did not know how long they rode before he stopped before a thick stream. "The Essonne," he said, "if I have my bearings correct. It flows into the Seine, which should be to the east. We could follow the Seine back to Paris, but I would expect too many people to congregate there. Better we make our own path, yes?"

"I should say so," she agreed.

He dismounted behind her. The stirrups were adjusted for his own lengthy legs, so she could not use them. Instead, his hands clasped about her waist, so she could swing her leg over without fear of falling.

"Take a moment to stretch your muscles," he said, pulling a cast of water free from his pack. "I should think we can ride another hour before dusk."

He nudged the horse ahead to drink, then passed the canteen to her. As she sipped, she saw the way he gazed around them, his head tilted to the side as though listening.

"Are you worried we are being followed?" she asked, handing him back the cast. He did not drink, instead tying the canteen back to the pack.

"I did expect Martel to send someone."

She gave a shrug but regretted it. Her shoulders were already too tight from sitting upright on the saddle. "I didn't."

"Pardon?"

"I did not think Martel would send someone after me. I do believe he knows where I am."

"Does he."

"Yes. It was Nadir Khan who told me where you were."

Erik paused in the middle of checking the straps of the saddle. For a moment, his eyes fell into shadow within his mask. Then, he took up the stallion's bridle and urged the horse back from the water's edge. "I thought Daroga might have better sense than that."

She frowned. "Erik, that is not at all – "

"Come," he said, cutting her off smoothly. "We need to find a place to cross before nightfall."

She puffed an annoyed breath, but she allowed him to help her back onto the horse. He swung himself up behind her, his hips again fitting against hers in that way that made her shiver. She supposed a month ago, she would have been terrified at the very idea of crossing the countryside alone with such a man. He had killed three men the moment he had been freed in the basement, and he had killed again yesterday.

She glanced down, enthralled with the leather-gloved hand braced upon the juncture of her hip and thigh. This hand had killed, but it had also saved and stroked her face and pulled her close. Any fear she might have once held for him had dissipated along with her reluctance to ignore the feelings settling low in her belly and throbbing deep within her heart.

She wanted this man, so desperately. Perhaps she even lo – no, she was not ready yet to explore such an absolute. Not until he was ready to stop pushing her away in his own manifestation of fear.

They crossed a shallow portion of the river, the frigid water splashing up the stead's flanks.

"What a magnificent animal," she said, stroking the velvety black shoulder.

Erik shifted behind her to take the reins with both hands. "Lean forward and hold tight to the saddle. The bank here is steep."

Christine did so and managed to keep from being pitched backward as the horse leapt up the short incline to finally finish fording the river. They settled back into a trot, the pace less rushed now. She wondered if Erik had relaxed once he knew that she had not simply disappeared from the chateau grounds with him without telling anyone of her whereabouts.

"Indeed, he is magnificent," he said. "The payment for him will not be inexpensive."

Christine found herself flushing with pleasure. "I thought perhaps you had stolen him," she admitted.

"In the past, I would have done so," Erik grunted. "However, I learned how you vouched for me with Martel. Repaying him with theft would dishonor your good name, no?" His hand had returned to her hip, and he briefly tightened his grip upon her, pulling her back flush against the tall line of his chest and belly. "You extend your kindness to others too quickly, my sweet Christine, especially to one such as myself."

She did not argue with him, not wanting to have this conversation when she could not see his eyes. For now, she enjoyed the brief moment of leaning into him before he straightened once more.

Luckily, Erik brought the subject back to the horse. "His name is Cesar, or at least that is what his placard read. A stallion of his caliber may not enjoy the opera stable and cobblestone streets of Paris. I shall have to eventually find a place for him to roam freely outside the city."

"That does seem best. He is quite a wild creature, isn't he?" She leaned forward and patted the beast's broad neck. "How much longer are we to ride him today?"

"Not long. I am satisfied enough with the distance we covered, and I do not want to risk his injury this close to nightfall."

They rode on, soon entering another copse of trees. Here, beneath the spanning branches of oaks and pines, the golden light of sunset dimmed to a dull throb of blue-filtered color. Erik slowed Cesar to a walk, then swung off to walk himself, leading Cesar by the bridle. His black cloak fanned behind him, a shadow melding into other deepening shadows pulled darker by the falling day.

Finally, he stopped in a clearing and tied Cesar to a tree on the outskirts of the area. "This will do," he said, helping her down.

"Do?"

"For the night." He gave her a long, searching look. "I cannot go into a town, mademoiselle, not without at least some villainy on my part. Neither of us have funds on our person, do we?"

No, she did not. And she did not to make it seem as though she dreaded the thought of staying outdoors for the night. Charles and she had spent more than a few nights under the stars when they had no other choice.

She gave a little nervous cough. "I need to, ah… take care of private matters."

"Of course." He waved a hand toward a grove of shorter trees beyond the clearing, then turned swiftly away from her to attend to Cesar.

Night was swiftly approaching. As she stepped away from Erik, she could hear the sounds of insects stirring in the darkness. Snapping twigs and leaves under her feet sounded much too loud. After spending a few months in the city, she had forgotten just how _quiet_ the outdoors could be, every sound magnified in her ears. Even her breathing sounded hurried.

She rushed through her business and made her way back, perhaps hurrying a little too quickly. Cesar was munching happily into a feed bag. Erik had dragged a short log into the clearing, no doubt for them to sit upon. A thick blanket was spread near the other side of the fire, likely for sleeping.

"Shall I gather kindling?" she asked, needing a distraction.

"Please," he said. "Though I fear the ground is still too damp."

At least searching the brush helped fill the awkward silence that spanned between them. Christine had so many questions, so many things she wanted to discuss with him, if only she could gain the opportunity. She did manage to find some sticks that seemed dry enough, and she brought back an armful to find Erik kneeling over a ring of stones, hands spinning a puff of smoke to life upon a piece of bark.

"That is marvelous, Erik! How did you learn to do such a thing?"

"Out of necessity, my dear."

He bent closer, lifted his mask, and breathed upon the wisp of smoke, stirring it into a flicker of flame. At her angle, she could see none of his exposed face, and he replaced the mask just as speedily. Sooner than she thought possible, he had a roaring fire built within the stone circle. The heat from the flames cut through the chill in the air. With fall in full force now, the temperature at night would likely continue to drop.

Erik gestured at the log. "Have a seat, if you would. I did manage to snatch a meager ration of food. It is enough for me, but I was not expecting company."

The last he said with more than a little fondness in his tone, softening the guilt she felt. He fetched a parcel wrapped in what seemed like a clean kitchen towel. Settling beside her on the log, the length of their thighs almost touching, he offered it to her.

"Erik, I could not possibly eat your food, especially if you have had little. I did eat earlier."

He did not relent. "We have a long way yet until we reach Paris tomorrow. Another meal will be difficult to come by unless we steal it."

Not something Christine was keen to do. She reluctantly took half the bread, noticing he gave her a larger portion, and half the dried piece of meat. She began to nibble; truthfully, she _had_ been hungry.

Beside her, Erik stoked the fire, not eating his own share.

"Are you not hungry?" she asked after swallowing a bite of cheese.

"I will do so later."

 _This again._ "If you are worried about me seeing your face, I will look away." Without waiting for a reply, she did just that, turning upon the log so that her back was mostly to him.

For a while, he did not move. Then she heard the rustle of clothing, and the soft sounds of food being consumed. She busied herself with eating her own until she heard water sloshing in the canteen, and Erik nudged her shoulder, offering her a drink. That hated black thing was back upon his face when she handed back the water.

The sky overhead had deepened to a dark blue, and the first stars were visible in the open space of the clearing.

Christine took a deep breath, let it out in a steadying stream. "May I ask you a question?"

"Yes," he said, resting his elbows on his thighs, his hands dangling between them. It was a relaxed posture, but his ever-expressive eyes gave away his tension. "However, I may not give an answer."

Of course. "Why were you upset to learn that Nadir had told me where to find you?"

Erik was silent for a moment, then said, "The Daroga knows very well who I am – what I am. By sending you to me, instead of urging you to take Martel's offer, he went against his better judgment. I may have to start questioning his mental capabilities."

"He didn't. Send me to you, I mean. While he did not expressly say I should join Monsieur Martel, he certainly did not discourage me." She studied him as she added, "I went to you despite his insistence otherwise."

"Ah. The Daroga may yet live then."

A joke? Christine drew her cloak more tightly around her to drive out the chill beyond the fire. "May I ask another question?"

"I do believe it is my turn, little bird."

He wanted to make a game of it! She was more than happy to comply. It had been what seemed like ages since she had been able to sit with him and simply talk. If he was willing to engage in conversation with her… she tried not to seem too eager, turning more toward him, their outer knees touching briefly.

"Go ahead," she urged.

His voice turned soft. "What was in your father's security box?"

Her heart clenched. Maybe this would not be as effortless as she thought. "Monsieur Martel explained that he had known Papa since before I was born. When we moved to Paris, he was willing to keep a few of my father's things safe for him. There were some papers within, which I was not able to read yet, and a family photograph. Inside a small box were my parents' wedding rings and my mother's perfume. The bottle broke when Raoul threw it."

"Daffodils and orange blossoms," he murmured.

She looked at him, startled. "Yes, exactly. H-How did you…?"

"When you brought me food," he said. "I could smell the faintness on you. It was quite… appealing. I should have told you then."

Her face heated at the expression in his golden eyes. "We were otherwise preoccupied with saving our lives, were we not? I managed to dab a little on my neck, but the whole bottle was lost to me."

"A shame."

"Yes." She cleared her throat. "My father's violin was also in the crate. And yes, I thought he had sold it, but as it turns out, there were some actions that even my father could not do in his grief."

"The music calls, even when one's heart is not ready to receive it."

"That is one way of looking at it, I suppose. I was shocked to see it lying there in that case I knew so well. I felt as though I was grieving for him and my mother all over again. I think, if it had been different circumstances, I might have been angry with him too, for deceiving me. In the end, my longing for him is all jumbled up with my relief at seeing his instrument again."

To her surprise, Erik laid one of his hands atop hers. He had removed his gloves to eat, and his grayish skin glowed pale in the firelight. His cool, calloused palm brushed her knuckles before settling there, warming against her hand.

She needed to continue. The words, when she spoke, were barely audible, squeezed by the sudden lump in her throat. "My turn, right? This one I have not been able to deduce: how did you know where to find me in that garden in Paris? Did you follow me? How did you even know that I had left the Palais Garnier?"

"I believe those are multiple questions." He squeezed her hand and her heart flipped. "I must implicate Madame Giry for this explanation. She came to me after she had delivered your note."

"She told you?" Christine frowned at that, thinking the ballet mistress a confident.

His thumb swept over the back of her hand, trying to smooth away her distress. "She did what she thought she was best. I do not want to think upon what might have happened should I have arrived too late. As such, I had hoped to arrive before _he_ did, but I was too late to do anything but watch him threaten and then hurt you." His other hand lifted to touch the edge of the bruise on her cheek, but she felt anything but pain from the caress. "If he had not possessed that pistol, I would have torn him apart."

She put her free hand atop his, felt the tendons there shift under her palm. She never would have met Raoul alone if she had known he was capable of such cruelty. She had thought to handle the key on her own, but now she understood that confronting Raoul had been as much Erik's catharsis as it had been hers.

"Why did you not tell me he was the one who imprisoned you?"

The skin around his eyes tightened. Oh, how she wished she could see his face, to be able to read his full expression.

"It is my turn for a question, is it not, my songbird?"

She puffed a sigh. "All right."

"Would you sing upon the stage, if you had the opportunity?"

She blinked, not expecting such a question. "I… have not given it much consideration."

"You have the natural talent," he said, leaning forward in sudden earnestness. "I have told you this many times, have I not? With a little training, you could become the most magnificent prima donna the world has ever seen. I do not say such things lightly."

"I do not know," she said, looking at their interloping hands. "I used to want this, back when my parents performed and I would join in with them. My soul felt empty without hearing music every day. But when my mother died and it all faded away… I finally felt that stirring, that longing again when I moved to Paris, when I met you. And now that I can visit my father's grave without fear, and I can hold his violin in my hands again, perhaps eventually I might find that drive within me again."

She let her thumb stroke up his wrist, careful to avoid the healing red marks left from the chains. "Am I making any sense at all? My head feels so muddled about this, and I have had little time to think on it."

She heard him draw in a breath and let it out slowly against the lower curve of his mask. He held very still, as though his entire focus was upon the movement of her thumb. When she stopped, he shuddered.

"I understand," he said at length. "It is too soon for me to be asking such of you."

She shook her head. "I _want_ to know what you are thinking. So often I feel as though you are hiding things from me, that you are still trying to protect me from yourself. I _want_ you to lean on me, to let me in. After everything we have been through, Erik, I hope you have realized that I can handle whatever you give me."

Her cheeks flamed after her confessions. How could she have said those words aloud? Not only calling into light his avoidance of growing closer to her, but also desperately revealing that she wanted him to trust her own strength.

Her hand pressed down upon his lest he try to draw away. He had grown very still.

"I answered your question," she pressed on. "Will you answer mine? The night my father was murdered, you had realized that the man I had been seeing was the same man who had ordered those chains on your wrists, but you kept that knowledge from me. And again at the opera, when you saw him, you did not tell me your connection with him. Why not? Why keep that from me?"

"Must you, Christine?" he said with more than a little despair. "Must you know?"

"Yes, I must." Because if she was to pursue this direction, she needed to know that his heart beat toward the same path as hers.

His hands trembled under hers. "While I was imprisoned, I did not know he was yours until it was too late. Had I put the pieces together sooner, I might have saved your father from his fate. After that… anything that happened between us, I needed know it was not because you were running away from him but because you were running toward me."

 _Oh, Erik._

"How could I know your intentions were true," he continued, "if you had no other option?"

She saw him clearly then. A man who did not truly believe that she wanted him. A man so used to rejection that he needed to open all paths for her to leave him before he could believe that she would stay. What could she do to prove to him otherwise? How could she ease his fears while also circumventing her own?

She found herself lifting her hand from atop his and reaching to cup his masked cheek. He leaned into the touch he could not feel beyond warmth and pressure. Willing her fingers steady, she eased her hand until her fingertips found purchase on the edge of the linen, her thumb gripping the curve that fit his cheek.

Immediately, he jerked his hands free. One spindly hand flashed to her wrist, while the other came up to secure his mask in place.

"No, Christine!"

"I told myself I would wait until you wanted me to see," she said, voice quiet and calming, a contrast to the frantic thudding of her heart. "I wanted you to be the one to do it, to reveal yourself to me, to finally let me see your face." She swallowed down rising tears and replaced them with a rush of anger. "But then he stole that moment from us when he forced you in the garden! I had to give him the reaction he sought with the hope that he would stop his malice toward you. I want a chance to reclaim it back from him, Erik."

She moved to grasp the mask again, and his fingers allowed her to do so. With both hands, she eased the mask from his face, taking care not to pinch or disturb his wig, sliding it along with the tie off his head. Her attention remained focused on the mask itself, following its black shape as it settled in her lap.

Erik had let go of her entirely, and now his bony knuckles were white as he dug fists into his clothing. His breath panted wildly, painting her forehead with its freed warmth, his face now bared for her perusal, but she did not look up, not yet. She took each of his hands in hers, coaxed the spidery fingers to relax, bent and kissed each hand before holding onto each.

"Christine," he said, and _oh_ , the sound of her name upon his naked lips.

"Say that again," she said, her lips breaking into a gentle smile. She bent and pressed her lips to their entwined hands again, and two splashes of her tears fell upon them.

"Christine," he said again. And then, in a whisper of courage: "Look at me."

She did. Her eyes first met his, those wondrous golden depths swimming with fear and pride and anger. She saw the way the sallow skin at the corners of his eyes drew together as he frowned, and two lines appeared between his thin brows; she wanted to smooth them immediately. She swept her gaze from one eye to the next even as he took in her every reaction, and then she allowed herself to shift to the black hollow in the center of his face, the gaping yawn where a nose should be, and oh, her poor beloved, how he must have suffered.

The dart of a tongue caught her attention, the flash of pink between two thin lips. As she watched, those lips that had once pressed to hers parted to emit one hissing word as she watched, entranced.

"Satisfied?"

No, not at all, she thought. She bit the inside of her own lips, drew in a shaky breath. "I feel as though I have been yearning for something my entire life, and I am only beginning to sense its reality."

Chasing her urge, she touched one sharp cheekbone with a finger. Those brows drew together and lifted, and his eyes widened. His lips opened in an expression she could not quite place.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, worried.

"N-Not physically, no. Not beyond the chafing of the mask."

God, to hear his voice free from that linen shell! It was all sonorous melodies that slid over her skin and rumbling baritones she felt deep within her bones.

Emboldened, she carefully palmed his other cheek until she could take his face within her hands. His face, _his_ , and she wanted so desperately to claim it as her own. His skin felt rough, the texture a mixture of ribbons of raised tissue and the smooth spaces in between. She had felt this beautiful flesh before, and now she wanted to map it with her eyes and place the memory of this moment somewhere where she would never forget it.

She arched up, slid one of her hands to cup the back of his neck, and gently put her lips against his.

He broke away with a gasp, chest heaving. She thought he would pull away from her now, and she had a protest formed when she found herself jerked back to him. His lips crashed upon hers almost painfully as teeth clicked against teeth, until she shifted the angle. More, she wanted more. She encouraged him by feeding a moan from her mouth to his, wounding her arms around his neck to drew him closer still. Their knees knocked together – what a bother – and then his arms wrenched her up and she was sitting upon his thighs, her legs swung to one side across his lap.

She held onto the mask, not wanting it to fall into the dirt. One of Erik's hands dove into the looser hair of her chignon at the base of her neck, the other splaying across the base of her corset to keep her close. She kissed him like her life depended upon feeling his lips upon hers. She clutched him to her, his broad shoulders flexing under her hands, his chest surging against hers whenever they both gasped for a breath.

They kissed and kissed, desperation driving their passion, the longing between them finally coming to a crest that had no choice but to break. She wanted – _something_ more, her body beginning to feel like it was on fire. She would have burrowed her way beneath his skin if she could have, settled for digging white teeth into the bottom edge of his lip and _God_ how he groaned.

She swept her palms up and down his arms, all sinew beneath his thick overcoat. She felt his hands upon her, exploring as she did. Their mouths gentled against each other, slowing into a slick slide that did not help ease the ache that had stirred within her. His hands clutched her arms, spread their great widths across her upper back, encircled her hips. Between her legs, she felt warm and damp, and she squirmed upon those firm thighs, seeking something she had never felt before.

Erik broke away and hid his face in the juncture of her neck and shoulder, his breath hot above her collar. She felt him press soft, nipping kisses just beneath her jaw, and she tilted her head up to give him easy access. His hips rolled beneath her, and the sudden pressure below made her gasp aloud.

"Exquisite creature," he breathed into her skin. "What a gift you have given me, but here we must stop."

She lowered her head to look at him, to ask him why. But he had already scooped up the mask on her lap and hidden his face from her. Seeing that barrier between them made her eyes flush with tears that she would not let fall lest he misunderstand them.

She felt him lift her easily into his arms. In a moment, he had laid her atop the blanket spread near the fire. As he pulled back, his eyes glittered in the low light.

She found a bit of courage. "Stay with me?"

"No," he said throatily. "No, I think not. You need to sleep, and I need to keep watch."

Did he not need to sleep too? She did not argue further, sensing that she was venturing into a territory she had never yet explored.

Tomorrow, they would reach Paris, and she would once again join him in his underground home. As her body slowly cooled and her eyelids closed to sleep, she thought about what might happen if they had not stopped.

And she knew she wanted to find out.


	22. Return

**Chapter 22: Return**

The air seemed to swirl around her, wisps of white fog slicing through the otherwise dark night. She stood in the middle of a forest, and the trees towered above her, disappearing into the fog above like the legs of giants. She tried to move, but could not, seemed as rooted in place as those huge trees, and then she saw them – eyes glowing in the distance. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

And then she heard a sound that sent shivers cutting through her – the howl of a wolf.

Christine woke, sitting upright with an unsteady lurch. Sweat dampened the back of her neck, but her face was chilled. She could feel warmth start to seep into her frozen nose and cheeks, and as she roused, she saw the fire blazing a few meters from her feet.

Across the fire, she saw the glowing eyes from her dream.

Before she could stop herself, she yelped and scrambled to her knees, prepared for flight.

"Be at ease, Christine."

The sound of Erik's voice rumbling across the darkness made her pause, soothing her panic and causing her to seek him out rather than flee. He was the source of the glowing eyes, and he cut them away, the dark shape of his gloved hand coming up to block them from her.

Shame flooded her. She rose to her feet, and a blanket which had covered her puddled to the ground – his cloak.

"I am sorry," she said, grasping his cloak and bringing it with her as she skirted around the fire. The black fabric was heavy in her arms.

"No matter. You should go back to sleep while you can."

She shook her head. "I tried, but I had a nightmare. There… there was a wolf."

She came over to his side of the fire and sat beside him on the log. She did not hesitate – she wanted his overwhelming presence; she wanted that tightness in her heart to lessen the way it did when she was with him. She heard him suck in a breath as she pressed herself up against him.

"You are cold," she said, huffing.

"As always," he said drily, which made her smile.

She took the cloak and draped it across both of their shoulders. It insulated them, created a barrier that trapped the warmth from the fire. She wound her arm under his and rested her cheek against his upper arm. He was all stiff, wiry muscle, an unmovable mountain of tension. Would he ever relax to her touch?

A howl cut through the darkness at their backs, causing the hairs on her arms to stand on end. She clutched at Erik's arm.

"My dream-"

"Was not a dream," he said. He placed a hand upon her arm, and she loved the soothing weight of it. "The wolves are prevalent in this part of France, much to the chagrin of farmers. They have been giving us a wide berth, however." He added, a bit more darkly, "I am far more frightening than they are."

She nudged his shoulder. "Erik, don't say such a thing." She wondered, if she just – would he –

She held his arm lest he pull away, and she let her fingers drift up to the edge of his mask at his jaw. He stiffened beside her, if that was even possible, and his hand turned to a claw on her arm.

But he did not wrench away when she slid the mask up enough to expose the thin line of his mouth. His lips parted, his breath held a beat.

He was the one to lean down.

Erik pressed his lips to hers. He kissed her with slow slides of lip upon lip, sometimes barely even caressing, and she was entranced, her sensitive skin feeling every pull and glide. Warmed as she was by the fire, by the blanket of him around her, she soon felt herself consumed by heat.

She was lost to the moment, did not know how long he kissed her there in the middle of the forest. At one point, he removed one of his gloves, and his naked hand slid to the nape of her neck and fondled the tendrils of her hair that had escaped while she slept. His other hand came around her shoulders and pulled her closer. The heat of him seeped into her very bones.

He kissed her as though this was an instant stolen from time. As though at any moment, she might disappear into the fog of the night.

When he pulled back, he did so to press a kiss to her cheek, to the corner of her eye, to her forehead, before he slid the mask back into place.

"Sleep," he said, voice rougher.

Her cheek returned to his shoulder, and enveloped by the feel of him, the heady scent of him, the warmth that had spread through her, she did.

* * *

Christine woke. Erik had returned her to the blanket spread on the ground, and his cloak was draped to her chin. A smile pulled at her lips, which still felt kiss-swollen, and the remembrance brought a flush to her cheeks.

The morning had pushed a dewy chill into the air. No doubt her clothes would have been damp if he had not covered her so. She heard noise across the clearing and sat up to see him covering the last of the fire's dying embers with mounds of earth.

"Good morning," she said, climbing to her feet and attempting to smooth her clothing. In the hazy light of dawn, her rumpled skirts were more obvious, as was the dust on her shoes and hem. She tried to fix the pins that had loosened from her hair, but she knew she looked a mess.

His yellow eyes flickered to hers, no longer that otherworldly glow. "Good morning, little bird. Your breakfast awaits, how little there is. Wish that we had hot tea in our possession."

"Or coffee."

"Or a glass of warm wine." If his mask was off, she might have seen a curling upward of lips. "You shall have whatever you desire when we return home."

"Is that a promise?"

The words hung in the frosty morning air between them.

Erik cut away first, striding over to Cesar while murmuring about how they needed to be off quickly. While he saddled their horse, Christine splashed some cold water on her face and ate the provisions he had left for her. She needed to leave well enough alone, at least while they were traveling.

Soon, he was helping her climb atop Cesar's broad back while the stallion stamped the dirt with impatience. Erik swung up behind her, his hips fitting snugly against hers. One of his hands came around her waist with greater confidence than before, while the other guided Cesar to turn toward the creek. They splashed across the shallow water, and then Erik squeezed in his heels, increasing their pace to a trot.

"When do you think we will reach Paris?" she asked.

"By the afternoon, I would hope," he replied, "but our companion here will need rest by midday, which may slow us down."

She hesitated, looking down at the powerful movement of the animal under her. "What will you do with him? I doubt he would enjoy going underground."

"Indeed not. I hope to arrange something with the opera's stables, but in the meantime, he will need to be boarded outside the city. We can find such a place once night falls, perhaps after we cross the Seine south of Paris."

"And then?"

He made a contemplative hum, a noise that charmed her. "I do not relish attempting to access the tunnels in broad daylight lest we are seen. Dusk comes earlier now, so we should not have to wait long after boarding Cesar."

"Whatever you think is best. I… am there by your side."

She had been gripping the saddlehorn for balance, but she momentarily placed her hand atop his where it rested on her hip. She felt a pressure upon the crown of her hair – the press of his mask. A kiss? She smiled, even though he could not see it.

The hours passed, one conceding to the next until they blurred together into one long day. The two riders spoke little, but it was a companionable silence. Sometimes Christine would comment on the foliage or a bird they might see. Charles had often helped her wile away the time spent traveling by educating her on the wildlife they encountered. While she could identify many plants, Erik contained more knowledge about their uses. Their trade of information delighted her and kept boredom at bay.

The haze of the morning gave way to a sunny, cloud-speckled sky, a welcome break after all the rain. The sunlight did wonders to cut through the ever-growing chill of autumn. Erik was at her back, the confident horse was beneath her, and the sun made everything around them sparkle. Her spirits were higher than they had been since… well…

They had been crossing a stretch of open field when she found herself humming. In the midst of her daydreaming about happier times with Papa, she did not realize how still Erik had grown behind her.

"Lotte?"

Hearing _that_ name as a hiss from behind her sucked the breath out of her. She realized what she had been singing: a song that often ran through her mind, but one that she had never shared with Erik.

 _"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing."_

Oh, how she wished she could turn around in the saddle. Even if she could only see his eyes, she could still try to gauge his emotions from those yellow depths. She took a deep breath. If they were ever to move on, she needed to be able to explain.

"Mama used to sing me lullabies," she began, "and this was one that Papa continued after she died. It is so silly, but I liked the tale of the Angel of Music, and the reminder that music has always been such an important part of my life. Sometimes, in quiet moments like this, the melody rises in my head again."

Erik's hand tightened on her hip, a clawed clutching which might have been painful if not through the layers of corset and clothing. " _He_ called you that name."

He. Raoul.

"Yes, he did," she said softly, stroking a length of Cesar's black mane. "I met him by chance when Papa and I were traveling, and he overheard Papa's teasing of me. _Little Lotte let her mind wonder. Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or shoes_. Such a ridiculous tune, is it not?" She scoffed. "Papa meant it quite mockingly, I assure you – I was a more contemplative child than that. But _he_ picked it up, and he called me that name ever since."

"Does… the name mean something to you?" Erik asked.

She searched between his words for what he was truly asking. She found she was becoming quite adapt at understanding him. "Now that his character is clear to me, now that I know how I was deceived by him, I see how much he was mocking me by using it."

He had used a memento of her childhood meant to control her emotions and therefore, control her. How she detested how much Raoul had ruined the lullaby for her, first sung by her mother all those years ago.

Erik's hand upon her hip softened and drifted to the piece of skin between her glove and sleeve, caressing in a manner that might have been apologetic. In the least, it was soothing, and she relaxed under the tender touch, felt him do the same behind her. They would not let this bit of information come between them, would not let _him_ continue to haunt the air like a bad taste in the mouth.

"This Angel of Music," he said at length. "An idea created by your parents?"

"I guess so. Music was their life back then, you know. It was everything to them. When I was a little girl, when they put me to bed, they always left me with a song. Usually it was just a scrap of melody, something to linger in my head as I fell asleep. _Sings songs in my head_ , right? Now that I think about it, this was the single lullaby that Papa still brought up, even after Mama passed on. Maybe it was a way to keep her memory going even if in such a small manner."

He was silent for a while, his thumb sweeping back and forth against that slip of skin at her wrist. Then his hand trailed up her arm until it reached her shoulder, then traveled back to its place upon her hip.

"I wonder if you are not mistaken, little bird."

"In what?"

"When you said music was your parents' life, that it meant everything to them, perhaps that is not quite the actuality. From what you have told me about them, I wonder if what meant the most to them instead was _you_."

* * *

They left Cesar at a stable near the sewer entrance, the large sum promised early the next morning seeming to outweigh any suspensions of the man with his hat drawn low and the woman in mourning garb. It was with great reluctance that Christine stroked the soft muzzle one last time and followed Erik to a sewer grate.

They had waited late enough that the darkness helped to cloak them as they slipped through the narrow opening. Christine never thought she would be so glad to enter the underbelly of Paris, but going underground meant she was one step closer to the basement of the Palais Garnier. One step closer to being able to leave the last few days behind her completely.

Erik had been quiet after the discussion about the lullaby, too quiet for Christine's liking – not a comfortable silence. He was thinking too much, she could tell, and perhaps it was never beneficial for him to spend too long inside his own head.

She did not press him, their footfalls enough discussion for her. The crunch-scrape of his boots and the clicking pad of her own entwined in their own kind of melody. She could almost hear the libretto spun of such rhythms – his own confident, too-quick stride, and her eagerness to follow behind him, perhaps the first time without hesitation. The words would speak of weeks they had danced back and forth, how they had slowly become more and more entwined. The duet of their shared story.

Her feet started to ache, and she began to fear that she was spending too long breathing the stench around her, when Erik finally drew round a bend and called for her to halt.

"Almost there," he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. "Not much farther now."

"Thank God," she replied, managing some sort of smile.

And then there they were, stopping before the metal door with its many locks. Erik felt along a piece of brick further away and drew out two picks, using the tools to open the padlock on the door.

The stench clung to their clothing for a while, but then it gradually bled into the earthier scent of Erik's tunnels. Cobblestone turned into a mix of dirt and stone beneath her feet. After a while, in passages that twisted in ways meant to confuse intruders, she went up some steps, and then she was upon a wooden floor.

It was ridiculous, but she almost wept then. When Erik opened the next door that they encountered, and she saw the hallway with the Persian rug at her feet, she did cry out. Not truly understanding her own reaction, she tugged off her boots, so dirty from her travels, and darted down the hallway, past Erik's bedroom on the left, the kitchenette further down on the right, and her own bedroom door on the left just before the hall opened to the large sitting area.

But she did not stop there. She was aware of Erik following her, the glow of the lantern he held highlighting her path as she picked up her skirts and ran to the front door. She threw the lock, opened the door –

And _breathed._

She remembered the first time she had experienced the lake beneath the opera. The damp air had cooled her enflamed cheeks and distracted her from the sight of Papa's dried blood on her clothing. She had been so dazed in that moment, the sound of water pinging onto the still surface of the water loud in her ears. Now, again, here again, she stared out into the endless darkness, the scent of the water permeating the air.

Once, she might have found the sight of the flat, mirroring lake eerie, the blackest black of the caverns frightening. Now, she turned back to Erik, her face stretched in a giddy grin.

"We are home!"

The light of the lantern did not quite reach his eyes. "Home," he echoed. He half-turned and swept an arm at the inside of the little house. "I need to light the fires to drive away the chill of this place. Then perhaps I can find something in the ice chest to eat?"

"I can do that," she said, leaving the lake behind.

Erik lit candles in the rooms, then hurried off to do as he had said while Christine went into the kitchen. Maybe she should have taken off her outer things, but the inside of his house was just as cold as the sewers had been. The hour must be growing late, so she set a kettle for tea instead of coffee to heat on the stove. She found the remnants of a duck _hachis parmentier_ , a dish that reminded her of the English shepherd's pie, and set to heating it up.

The giddiness that had risen while near the lake had not abated. She was back inside Erik's home, and she did not know when she had begun to think of it as _their_ home, but she had. Everything that had happened the past three days seemed like a faraway dream now. She set out two place settings on the small table in the kitchen, and she was spooning food on their plates when Erik entered, no longer wearing his cloak, hat, or gloves.

The kettle started to whistle. She glanced at it and took it off the heat, but she made no move to start the tea.

"Something else, perhaps?" he asked, his tall form taking up the bulk of the doorway. "A glass of sweet wine?"

"Please. And I will be right back." She went to hang up her own cloak beside his. Stopping by her bedroom, she saw he had lit a fire in there as well as the sitting room. Her room appeared the same as it had when she left it, the pale blue wrapper with the matching embroidered slippers still arranged on the armchair beside the bed. She set her gloves on the dresser and hurried back to the kitchen, a bit more aware of her stockinged feet padding across the carpets.

Erik was in the midst of uncorking a bottle of wine. He poured two glasses of the red liquid and brought them over. "The hour grows late. You must be quite exhausted."

She was not. At all. Her knee bounced with nervous energy, luckily hidden under the table. "I am eager for a bath, actually." To avoid his response, she focused her attention on the glass of wine, taking three large gulps. "It is odd to be back, isn't it?"

"How so?"

She took a few more sips of wine. The warmth curled in her stomach and loosened her tongue. "I was caught in such uncertainty before – unsure what had happened to Papa, so hesitant about where I was headed. In the past three days, I have experienced some truly horrific events, but I have also begun to see my future with a clarity I did not possess before."

"What a gift," he murmured, "to have such lucidity."

"I guess you could say that. Evidently, I have grown tired of simply _waiting._ I think I want to take more agency in the direction of my life, to experience what new avenues are open to me. I-I am eager to see what the future holds for the first time in a long time."

How she was blubbering! When he did not answer, she put down her glass, noticing that she had drank more than half the wine without realizing it. She set to devouring her lamb pie to add some meat to her empty belly, glancing up at Erik with as much nonchalance as she could.

He had not touched his food or wine. The man was not even looking at her, his eyes adverted to some inconsequential spot off to the side. Perhaps he was weary from lack of sleep. Perhaps he was waiting for her to leave so he could eat and drink without his mask in peace. …Perhaps she had said too much, and he was done discussing it.

She quickly finished her plate and downed the rest of her glass, then scooted her chair back from the table. Erik looked up then, his attention drawn back to her by the noise.

"I am going to take a long bath," she said, stopping at his elbow in her path to place her dishes in the sink. His eyes swiveled up to meet hers. She felt a flush rise to her face. Emboldened by the wine, she added, "And then may I come to your room? To… to bid you goodnight?"

Something flickered in his gaze. "You may."

* * *

Christine toed the tap off and sank into the water. She had drawn the bath as hot as she could stand it. Even though she had bathed at Martel's chateau, she felt grimy from traveling on horseback across the countryside for so long. She wanted to wash away any remnants of those three days, the last of the bruise on her cheek and the scab on her neck. A bit absently, she realized she was also scrubbing away the last traces of Mama's perfume, but she could not think much about that right now.

She washed her hair with an oil that foamed up like soap, the scent of roses strong in her nose, then scrubbed her body with an ivory soap of the same aroma. This was the scent that had gradually faded from her while she had been gone, and she was glad to have it back upon her skin. One more remembrance of Erik's home.

She looked down at herself, her body somewhat obscured by the now milky water. She had never quite given her shape much notice before. A full bath had been a rare luxury and even then, usually freezing cold and quickly wrought. Until recently, she had merely worn whatever clothes fit her, function winning over design.

Raoul's gift of clothing had only brought into stark reality the nature of her body. She had felt ridiculous in the gowns he had given her, a duckling trussed up in the skin of a swan. The bodices had swallowed her small chest and left her feeling _without_ for the first time in her life. They had been too loose in the front, too tight in the hip, too long for her short legs, and she had hated them.

Now, she let a hand drift down from her neck to those curves she had always ignored. She did not want to compare the two men, wanted to turn her thoughts only to Erik. He had never made her feel like she was not good enough, that she needed to be changed. Every small part of her had caused him to react with fascination, had drawn a sharp breath between his teeth – her wrist, her neck above her collar, her face.

How would he react to the shape of her? Her fingers drifted over the small mound, hefted the slight weight of it under the water, thumbed the peak before quickly flitting to rest on her stomach. She was no longer a child, had not been one for some time, and she felt quite certain that _he_ had never seen her as anything but a woman.

Her hand then continued down her stomach, stopping before the curls between her legs. She had never given this part of her much consideration, but she could no longer deny that this was where she ached the most. When Erik kissed her, when he drew her close, all of her passion seemed to resonate here.

She drew her knees together and shuddered, jerking her hand away. When she had perched atop his lap in the forest, when he had pressed her to the door of her bedroom, his hips rolling against hers… That part of a man… She knew Erik wanted her as much as she wanted him.

Knew he wanted –

The way a man wants a woman.

She shook her head to clear her thoughts, suddenly feeling too hot for the bath. Pulling the plug, she drew herself out, her limbs heavy. The warmth in her belly caused by the wine had spread throughout her. It was a calming sensation. And a sensation that bolstered courage.

The silky wrapper slipped across her bare skin, the pale blue turning shades of lavender in the firelight. She buttoned it down to her upper thigh, then cinched the ties at her waist to draw the folds of fabric across her legs. The smoothness of her nakedness beneath the gown took her aback as she sat at her vanity and combed her damp hair, drying the ends of the curls as she went.

She lifted her gaze and saw herself in the mirror, saw the way her lips were parted and waiting, saw the pink flush to her cheeks and the brightness to her blue eyes. She turned away, unsure if she recognized the woman staring back at her.

Standing, she considered her slippers, but instead padded barefoot into the hallway. She needed little light to find her way to Erik's door but more than a little courage to knock.

"Come in," she heard as the even reply.

She did, stepping in and shutting the door behind her, leaning back against the wood as though it might ground her.

Erik sat in an armchair before the fireplace in his room. He wore only his shirtsleeves and trousers; for a moment, Christine wondered if he ever wore loungewear even though she knew he owned it. He too had taken a bath, the scent of the water wafting in from an attached bathroom, clean water mixed with herbs and sandalwood.

He wore no mask.

He did not look at her as she stepped a few paces from the door, his face in profile and cast in long, flickering shadows. His mask was perched on his knee. He tilted up a glass and finished the red wine, and Christine was overcome with the urge to kiss him then, to taste the sweetness and discover if it tasted the same on his lips as it did on hers.

When she moved to cross the room, he snatched the mask up.

"Please," she said, holding out a hand as though that might stop him. "You do not have to do that, not for me."

He still held the mask, but he did not put it on. "Do I not, Christine? You have seen so little of me like this. Do you not wish to scream or faint or flee, little dove? How can you possibly stand such a face?"

"I wish to come closer." She edged nearer until she had crossed the room, turning to look upon him fully. She stood between him and the fireplace, a move which cast him into more shadow – for his comfort rather than hers. "It is your face," she said, taking another step closer, her gown brushing against the edge of his spread knees. "And I love it because it is yours."

His eyes had remained wide as she approached, one hand gripping the mask, the other his empty glass. His stare flitted to her bare feet when she stood before him, and she saw a fierce expression flash across those golden eyes. Her belly tightened; her senses flared.

Stepping further between his knees, she placed a hand on each of his forearms, bracing herself to lean forward and press her lips to his. He opened with a gasp, and she let her tongue dip in for a quick taste; _yes_ , the wine was sweet on his lips, sweeter still than it had been on hers. She pulled back before he could get his hands around her, before she could lose herself just yet.

"You returned here with me," he said, thin eyebrows lifted high in an expression of disbelief. "You made that decision, to return here to Paris, to live in my house once again. To-" and here his tongue flicked out to moisten his lips- "to be here with me."

She smiled down at him. "I did."

"I should have stopped you."

The smile slipped from her lips, but she held onto it, would not let his trepidation cause her own doubt. "We have discussed this before, Erik, have we not? I do not wish to go round and round, to have to repeat the same words I have already spoken."

He set down the wine glass, and to her horror, he put on his mask, again hiding his face from her, leaving her with only that pair of golden eyes, steely in their decision.

"I cannot do this to you, Christine, cannot sully the future you want so desperately." He kept going, cutting her off before she could interrupt. "To hear you speak so eloquently of your desires, for the direction you wish your life to go. To hear you so hopeful for what the future might bring – I cannot be the shadow that keeps you down here when you deserve every bit of light above."

Tears stung her eyes. She backed away from him, her hands balled into fists. "I desire _you_ , foolish man that you are!"

"A misdirection, to be sure," he said, sounding breathless. "One that I can remedy over time."

She swallowed down a rising sob. Spinning around, she dashed to the door with every intention to not stop until she had made it to the safety of her own bedroom. But a sound, a wet gasp for breath, made her pause halfway across the room. She looked over her shoulder, saw Erik cupping his mask with both hands, his long torso bent in agony at her leaving.

And she recognized what she felt then. The _love_ she felt.

"I desire you," she said again, turning back toward him. "No longer will I make any pretense otherwise. I will not apologize for it, Erik, nor will I run away."

As his eyes lifted to meet hers, she let her hands reach to the first button on her gown.


	23. Bare

**The rating has increased from T to M with this chapter.**

* * *

 **Chapter 23: Bare**

Christine's hands shook as she thumbed open the first button of her wrapper, starting at her neck. Her knuckles brushed the pulse there, which was flittering wildly beneath her skin, but she kept going, undoing one button at a time.

Erik seemed frozen where he sat in the armchair by the fireplace. His hands still cupped his mask, but his shoulders straightened as she began to undo her garment, no longer hunched to his ears. His golden eyes swam with emotion, and a new sharpness entered his gaze, a wildness that she had not seen before.

As she reached the sash and bypassed it to continue on with the buttons, he rose quickly from his seat. She shook her head, stepped back in case he tried to stop her, and flew down the length of her wrapper, unbuttoning the rest of the way. Then she took a deep breath and tugged upon the sash that held the silken fabric gathered tightly her body.

Now that she was doing it, she wondered how it was possible she had ever thought she could avoid the nerves churning in her belly. However, she had come here without anything beneath her wrapper, had she not? She had known very well what she might do in this room, and so here she was doing it, tugging loose the sash, splitting the gown open in the front, the cooler air of the room hitting her bare skin.

The silk slipped easily from her shoulders from there, and down arms until the blue fabric pooled at her feet. And she stood there, her chin slightly raised, her arms at her sides, as stripped as she had been in the bath.

Erik's eyes had remained on hers throughout this process, even as he stood and straightened to his full height. The lack of jacket and waistcoat and the tucked-in white shirt showed off the slim cut of his hips. He did not move from his spot in front of his chair, but slowly, oh so slowly, his eyes pulled away from hers.

She felt the weight of his gaze as surely as if he had placed his hands upon her bare skin. He swept down her with studious intent, no doubt taking in every flaw of her body – her too small breasts, the roundness in her thighs, her inelegant toes. The urge to cover herself rose, and she fought it back. When he snapped his eyes back to hers, she saw nothing but raw longing there.

"Mademoiselle," he said, his voice low and deceptively steady, "what are you doing?"

She lifted her chin further. "I should think that quite obvious, monsieur."

"Is it? I thought my concerns about what has already transgressed between you and I to be quite clear, and yet you… are persisting otherwise."

"You made clear what you thought was right, Erik, but not once have you made clear what _you_ want." _Or who you want_.

"I take it by your actions that you seem to already know."

Doubt swirled within her. Perhaps she had pushed too far. "I only wanted to make my intentions known to you."

"As you have." He stepped around the chair, but he remained across the room. She listened as he sucked in a shaky breath and blew it out – an act obviously meant to calm himself. His eyes carved a path down her once again. "I fight a constant battle, my dove, between doing what is right and acting upon what I want. But even I have a breaking point during which the two lines blur into pure instinct."

"D-Do you wish for me to leave?"

"Now that is something I did not say."

As he began to cross the space between them, she felt her resolve start to waver. She had not truly considered what he might do if she put herself in such a state. What _she_ might do. And now he paced toward her upon long legs, sleek as a panther, slow in his strides but persistently coming closer even as she began to tremble.

She dropped her gaze from his golden stare, and finally, she crumpled, bending down to pick up her wrapper from the floor. Her arms thrust hurriedly into the sleeves, and she managed to belt it around her waist before his black shoes appeared in her line of vision. She could not bring herself to look up at him, not while he was so close, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

The white flesh of his hand came into view, a bony finger sliding under her chin. She surrendered to the pressure he put there, allowed him to lift her face, giving her little choice but to meet his eyes again. They blazed as hot as the flames behind him. His thumb edged against the plump curve of her bottom lip, caressing. Even though her gown was belted, she still felt naked under his scrutiny.

"You play with fire, Christine," he said, his hand sliding to dip fingertips into her hair, thumb caressing the curve of her cheek. Despite his harsher words, his touch was given with the upmost gentleness. "Here you are, undressing yourself in the bedroom of a man who has long starved to touch another. You are offering yourself up like gold to a dragon, like a candle waved in front of someone long kept in the dark. Do you have any idea _what you are doing_?"

Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. "I…"

"You can flee at any moment, let me make that clear. But the longer you stand there, Christine, the longer you test my resolve to keep myself from you. The longer you remain, the less I care if my hand falls to the tie at your waist."

She shuddered as his words swept over her. If only he had not put that terrible mask back on that she could better read his expression. Her eyes fluttered closed, her focus zeroing upon his fingers as they shifted, brushing down her thick curls. She was frightened about where this might lead, but it was a heady fear, one born more from anticipation than the thought that he might hurt her.

His fingertips traveled from her hair to her shoulder, pressing into the silk there to trace her collarbone until he reached the dip in her neck. The sudden feeling of his skin meeting her skin there at the gap in her collar jolted her senses. She was highly aware that her wrapper was still unbuttoned, the two halves bound together only by the belt.

His fingers ghosted down that slight gap in her gown, setting her skin aflame. She thought she felt a tremble, but whether that was from him or from her, she did not know. His touch skimmed down between her breasts to the slight curve of her belly where her sash rested. When his hand gripped the tie there, she snapped her eyes open and stared at the white fabric of his shirt, unable to handle this intensity. She had already stood naked before him, but this seemed all the more tangible than before.

He was closer now, the backs of his fingers resting against her belly, and while she could feel her own breaths quicken in tempo, she also became aware of his own heaving chest. His other hand fisted at his side.

"Do you know what happens between a man and a woman, Christine?"

Her thoughts spun. She been too young to have this conversation with her mother, and Papa had never… well, fathers were not the best sources of information. But she had stayed in enough inns and been around enough of a variety of people to understand that they could fit together, that they were like two pieces of a puzzle.

Her face blazed with even more warmth. "Do you?"

To her surprise, a chuckle bloomed from him, rich and delicious. But there was a darkness there too, once that she wished she could banish from his eyes. "One can learn much by study and observation, and I have had a great deal of time to do both."

"But have you – have you ever –"

"No. I have not. I do, however, have a very vivid imagination." His head tilted slightly to the side, and he seemed to grow even larger. The hand not upon her sash lifted and traced the shape of her shoulder down to her hip, the heat of him felt even though air had remained between them. "You have not run away, little bird. My patience is at an end, and I will not withhold myself if you stay. I want to put my hands upon you – they ache for the feel of you, Christine."

She shuddered and said the one thing she thought would wash away his doubts: "P-Please touch me."

It seemed the last bit of consent he needed. His fingers gave one tug upon the tie at her waist, and the sash gave way.

"Beautiful." He brushed a knuckle up and down the smooth bit of skin between her breasts, then let his fingers drift to the bared line of her belly. He could have so easily have gone lower still, to the point where she ached the most, but he kept his hand above the dark curls there. "You are the most exquisite woman I have ever seen."

She reached for him, wanting to touch him too. But as soon as she caught on the first button at his throat, he jerked back and out of her grasp.

"Erik?"

Just as swiftly, he was behind her, one arm coming around her waist lest she try to turn around. She was brought up against the hard line of his body. Something fell at her feet, and she realized it was his mask, the molded bit of fabric tossed aside, and she understood as he moved aside the tresses on one side of her neck and replaced them with his lips.

She conceded to his need for concealment and tilted her head to the side to give him better access. His teeth scraped along the pulse point in her neck, and as he began to peel back the shoulder of her gown, his mouth followed, devouring the revealed skin left in the silk's wake.

Then his hands were parting the front of her wrapper. A palm grazed the tip of her breast, and she gasped, arching her back as though the motion might cause that friction again. Before she could squirm further or even simply ask him, he had tossed aside both halves of her gown and fully cupped her breasts in his hands.

She tossed her head back, landing against his chest. His hands were heavy upon her, his palms calloused and rough against her tender flesh, and she could scarcely believe the sounds she made at the sensation. He cupped the weight of her, gave the white globes measured presses of his fingers, ran his thumbs over her peaks until she was writhing against him. Whatever caused a reaction from her, he did again and again, and when he caught one nipple between finger and thumb, she cried out at the sting of pleasure.

"What exquisite sounds you make, sweet dove," he purred against the skin of her shoulder, his lips soothing any marks left by his teeth.

He applied pressure to both of the dark pink tips of her breasts, and she grabbed handfuls of the silk hanging on either side of her body, unsure how she managed to remain upright on her feet. How could she have ever thought herself too small? She fit perfectly in his palms as though made for them, the large expanse of his hands covering her entirely. He seemed to relish in the feel of her, exploring her breasts with studious fascination at the way she responded.

"I could stroke this softness of yours for hours," he said, "but I wish to find every way I might make you shiver. What else might make you cry out, hmm?"

One of his hands swept down her hip and the curve of her thigh before flitting aside her wrapper and skirting down the rise of her backside. Her eyes widened, staring out into the darkness of his opulent bedroom. This was quickly venturing into something that might turn into more than simply touching. If they continued, she would soon be giving herself over to him in all ways.

But was that not what she had already decided when she came here tonight, naked as she had been under her wrapper?

His fingers caressed one of her buttocks as though memorizing the shape of it, and then he took it within his hand as he had her breast, squeezing experimentally. She bucked back into his hand, her mind spinning, his fingers suddenly too close to where she throbbed. Oh God, to be touched so intimately…

His lips curled against her shoulder. "How glorious you are, Christine. May I slip my fingers between your legs, my sweet dove?"

Her thighs clenched together at the thought, and she could feel how oddly wet she had grown there. What was happening to her? He had lit a fire within her that could not seem to be quenched. Every place he touched caused the flame to grow, and she thought she might burn up from the inside out if he did not continue.

"Christine?"

"I-I fear I cannot stand much longer," she said. "Would you… take me to your bed?"

He was silent for a moment. Then she found herself scooped effortlessly into his arms. The duvet atop his bed was satin-smooth under her as he devested her of her gown and tossed the garment somewhere near them, and then he was behind her again before she could even catch a glimpse of him. He was still unmasked behind her, kissing with warmed, thin lips up her spine, but his hands were insistent in keeping her facing away from him.

She wanted so badly to connect more with him. She tried to feel behind her with one hand, to at least be able to touch his side or his thigh. As soon as she made contact with the linen of his pants, his free hand latched onto her wrist and brought it to the duvet, where he pressed her hand into the cover, entwining her fingers with his own.

The message was clear about how he expected this to go.

Tears sprung to her eyes, but she blinked them away. If she was determined to see this to the end, to be with him in all ways, then she would have to accept the _how_.

Gradually, as though waiting to see what she would do next, he eased himself behind her, curling his own body around the shape of hers, his clothing scratching against her sensitive skin. She could feel something rigid against her thigh, a hardness that he pumped against her once, twice, testing the waters between them to see how she would react.

"E-Erik?"

His hips moved back from her. "Do you wish to continue, my Christine?" he asked, voice hoarse.

"Yes," she said, swallowing down her increasing uneasiness.

He extricated his fingers from hers, slowly, as though making certain she would not try to reach for him again. Sorrow welled up within her, but she tried to push it aside, fisting the duvet beneath her. There were many ways she had imagined this moment might go, but she had thought she would at least be able to settle her hands on his arms, to seek solace in his kisses, to pull him close if she felt afraid.

His fingers drifted to her hip, then dipped their way between her thighs. The first touch brought a wave of pleasure coursing through her. She could feel how slick she was, his fingers slipping easily across her core.

"Ah, Christine," he said in her ear. "Oh my sweet! The feel of you here is indescribable."

Then she felt herself being pressed down into the bed, her cheek buried in the mattress, as a weight settled atop her. He was heavy, far heavier than his wiry form might have indicated. His body was all bony ridges and hard muscle, and she could feel that rigid part of him pushing against her backside, only the rough fabric of his pants separating them. His hips dug into her from behind, one of his elbows braced near her head, his breath sharp in her ear.

She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to see anything but the soft folds of the duvet anyway. She thought she felt a sob bubble up within her throat. Her hands fisted the covers until she could feel the bite of her own nails.

His hips lifted for a moment. She heard the rustle of clothing behind her.

And she wanted so desperately to make this everything it should be between them. Even if this first time was not perfect, no matter what, she knew she had to speak the words within her heart.

"I love you," she said.

Atop her, he froze. Then a whoosh of air came hissing out his mouth. All at once, he had lunged off of her and sprung from the bed. She heard the stamp of his feet across the carpet, the slam of his bedroom door, all before she could raise her head from the duvet.

Using shaky arms, she braced herself into a sitting position, her face beginning to burn with shame instead of arousal. The fire sizzled and popped, but it was unable to mask the harsh sound of her own breathing. She sat naked in his bed, her pale flesh stark against the dark coverlet. And she was now alone.

* * *

Hours passed.

Christine had buttoned up her wrapper from throat to ankle, the process slow with her quivering fingers. Her chest heaved with silent sobs, but she did not cry; at least she had kept that dignity. For a while, she sat on the edge of the bed and willed him to return. The silent emptiness of his home left her no doubt that he had fled the premises entirely.

She thought she might be angry. She went to his chair by the fire, saw his empty glass – but no mask, which he must have taken with him. She waited for the anger to come, for a surge of such fury directed at him, perhaps even with a taste of blame to it. Instead, she first felt only sadness, a feeling that eventually merged into a calm sort of resolve.

She had known what happened when he was pushed too far from the circle of his usual comfort. And she had done it anyway.

She sat on his chair, her feet pulled onto the cushion, the wide fabric of her blue gown wrapped around her legs like a blanket, her chin resting on her arms. When the fire began to die, she placed on another log and kept it stroked. Still, he did not return.

Her eyelids began to grow heavy, but she did not want to leave his room. There was a finality that existed in stepping beyond that door. Before she drifted away in the chair, she went to his bed and turned down a side of the blankets. She slipped between the sheets, keeping on her gown even though it was not meant for sleep, feeling too small in this large bed.

The pillow carried a faint hint of his soap and of him. How much he truly slept, she did not know, but he had lain here at some point recently, enough that she inhaled his scent. A few tears managed to escape then, but she brushed them away, and no more fell. What would crying accomplish at this point?

Christine dozed, but she was easily awakened by the door creaking upon its hinges. She cracked open her eyes and saw the dark shape in the doorway, his frame tossed into firelight. As he closed the door behind him and came to the edge of the bed, she sat up, rubbing the bit of sleep from her eyes.

"You… remained here," he said. His voice sounded rough, like he had been using it far too much.

She looked up at him. If he had bent down, she might have snatched off the mask so that she could more clearly read him. "Where else would I go?"

Her words visibly stung him – he folded in on himself. But she would not take them back. He had left and gone wherever he had wanted, while she had not had the luxury of being able to leave his underground home alone.

She swallowed. "What happened? Was there something about me that- that you found less than pleasing?"

"Gods, no!" he said with sudden ferocity. He fell to his knees beside the bed. "No, Christine! You bequeathed me with the gift of yourself, and it was the most precious thing anyone has ever given me. If I could have spent the entire night looking upon you… touching you… I would have done so."

"But you left." She drew her knees up to her chin and hugged them.

"I had to. Do you not see, Christine? I wanted so desperately to be with you, and I still do." He held his hands in front of him, golden eyes ablaze. "I still feel the softness of your skin, your warmth, and I crave more of you always. I have for quite a long time. When I had you in my arms, it took all of my control not to lose myself in you."

"I wanted you to," she whispered.

He shuddered, fisting the blankets near her. Slowly, so he did not startle away again, she slipped from under the duvet and slid herself between his arms. Her wrapper rucked up around her, baring her legs to the knee, which she parted to ease them to either of his sides. Her hands settled on his shoulders, and she smoothed down the expansive length of them.

"I wanted to do this earlier," she continued softly. "I wanted to touch you as you touched me. I did not like not being able to see you."

He squeezed his eyes closed. "I frightened you, I could tell, and I was overcome with such grief that I could no longer allow myself to sully you with my presence. So often I have tried to drive you away with fear, and at that moment, I wanted to cause you anything but. My own fears overcame me, and in trying to preserve myself, I hurt you deeply. Oh, Christine, how can you possibly love such a monster?"

She felt a thrill run through her. He _had_ heard her words after all!

Her hands came up to cup his face atop his mask. "Do not call someone I love such a hateful word. It is not a monster I love, Erik, but a man." Her fingertips gripped the edge of the fabric that covered him, and even though he flinched, she gently pulled the mask from his face. "It is a man to whom I wish to give myself entirely."

She looked fully upon him, stared openly at the twisted ridges of his flesh, at the black, gaping hole where his nose should be. He had been crying, the evidence of tear tracks carved down his sallow cheeks. Now, more tears fell from the corners of his eyes. She thumbed them away and pressed her lips to the thin ridge of one cheekbone.

"I do not deserve such an angel," he moaned.

Tugging on the front of his shirt, she urged him toward her and kissed him. He rose up on his toes, hips wedging between her thighs and pushing her gown up further. His hands surged up her back, fingers entangling into her hair to tilt her head back, bending her to the onslaught of lips and teeth and tongue. She fed a moan from her mouth to his, and he answered with a chuffing groan of his own.

But just as quickly, he broke away his lips from her own, panting. "I do not want a mistress!"

Christine's mind spun into blurriness, taking her back to the past despite her own desire to forget. Once, Raoul had sought to reduce her to such – had snuck her in the back door and kissed her and paid her for her time. She had felt so dirty then, so horrified by the very idea.

"I-I never thought of it like that between us," she said, overcome with a sudden surge of tears. "I understand that I was forward with my intentions, but is… is that what you think of me?"

His hands grasped onto her with desperation. His fine eyebrows were drawn together and raised high, his eyes wide. Here was someone not used to controlling his own face when he had long had a mask to hide behind. Would that she could always keep it off him!

"Christine, I would never want you as my mistress because I desire you as my wife!"

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Stunned, she could only sit there. Truthfully, the thought had not arisen in her mind before. It had always been clear to her that Erik had lived a different life – and would continue to live – from the one she had always thought would be her own trajectory – marriage, a house, perhaps even children. Some part of her had simply accepted that from the beginning. And when she had grown to love him, she had also accepted that future for herself.

"Wife?" she echoed, voice squeaking upon the word. "You want to marry me?"

He took her hands in his large palms and kissed her fingers. "I wish for nothing more than to call you my wife, and to have you look upon me as your husband."

"Then… then why-" Why had he not simply _asked_ her?

His face twisted in anguish, he shook his head fiercely. "There are many reasons this is impossible, my Christine, and I was too much in want of you to say so before. When you stood before me, your skin glowing and your eyes so alive, I had to touch you if only for a moment. But I could never have forgiven myself if I had not stopped when I did."

His hands slipped from hers and he pulled back until he was no longer between her knees. "I knew a long time ago that I could never have you."

She caught the collar of his shirt before he could flee. "I am here, aren't I? _We_ are here _together_ , with or without a formal marriage."

"I cannot do that to you." His eyes swept up and down her, catching for a moment on her bare knees, and she knew he was remembering what had transpired between them. "You deserve much more than I can give you. You are far too exquisite a woman to-"

"And I am yours," she interrupted. "I _want_ to be yours. We have been through too much for you pull away from me again." Her hands traveled to his naked face, and her eyes met his. She wanted no doubt left within him.

"I love you, Erik."

A shudder rippled up his spine, and she saw his resolve break at last. "Oh my love!" he cried, surging toward her once more.

She opened her arms and embraced him as he kissed her, his lips near bruising against hers. One of his knees braced on the mattress between her thighs, and she tugged him onto the bed with her. His weight was a welcome one this time, their legs entangled, his continuing far down the bed past hers.

"I love you," she repeated, pressing her lips to each of the salty tracks carving down his sunken cheeks.

His arms tightened around her. "And I love you, my dearest one. I have been so afraid to say those words aloud. I love you. I love you, Christine."

She clutched him to her and cried her own tears of relief and joy, laughing a little as he returned the favor of wiping her face dry with his broad thumbs.

They lay like that for a long time, his hands delved into the abundant tresses of her hair, hers stroking the soft strands of his. Their kisses were languid and velvety, and they did not progress further. Neither one of them seemed ready to broach that barrier between them again, at least not yet.

His lanky arms around her, she laid her cheek against his chest and listened to the solid beat of his heart. Erik had said marriage was impossible, and he had not explained why. She knew she would have to eventually ask the questions brewing between them.

For now, at least, Christine pushed aside her worries about the future and allowed her eyes to finally close in sleep.


	24. Confidences

**I apologize for the very long delay between chapters! Work and life got in the way for a while. I can't promise a long wait again, but I hope the last few chapters will go quickly. Thank you so much to all the reviewers who have stuck by me all of this time!  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 24: Confidences**

For the third morning in a row, Christine opened her eyes to find herself not alone, and it was a sensation she could dangerously become used to feeling.

Her mind, hazy in half-sleep, flitted back to that moment two nights ago when she had caught Erik dozing in the chair next to her bed. He had seemed so peaceful in the snippet of a second she had seen him. This Erik was a different kind of peaceful. He sat beside her upon the bed – _his_ bed, where she had fallen asleep last night – his back propped up by several pillows. He was dressed impeccably, including mask and wig, save his jacket. He even wore his shoes, which were hanging off the side of the duvet upon his bed.

 _His_ bed. Oh God!

His golden eyes slid to her as she sat up perhaps too quickly to appear casual. But she had realized she was still dressed in her wrapper, and she was still very much naked underneath. What had happened last night came back to her in a heated flush to her cheeks.

His eyes upon her. His hands upon her. She could remember every moment in burning detail.

"Good morning, little bird."

"G-Good morning, Erik." She clutched the blankets to her, noticing that they snagged; Erik lounged atop them, not under. With her.

He lowered the paper and pen he had been holding. He had been… writing? "I hope I have not overstepped. I was loathe to leave you in case you woke to find me gone."

"I appreciate that you stayed," she said, meaning it sincerely. "Though I do not wish you to strain your eyes in this low light."

"You ought to know by now that I see quite well in the dark."

Was that a hint of humor in his voice? She felt herself growing even redder at the suggestion that despite the only light coming from the fireplace, he had been able to make out every detail of her body as she had undressed. Yes, perhaps she could admit that she had known how good of vision he possessed…

She cleared her throat. "I suppose you are glad to be home. Did you sleep well?"

"I did for a while, but I admit that my mind has been torn in another direction for the last hours."

He tapped the back of his hand against the papers balanced on his thighs. Now that she was more awake, she could see that they were several pages of staff paper – paper printed with musical lines. They were covered in notes and pieces of written word scribbled in a slanted scrawl.

"You are composing?" she asked, delighted.

"When inspiration strikes, I must answer the call." He leveled his gaze upon her. "You are proving to be the most stimulating of muses, my dove."

Her teeth worried upon her lower lip. "I have never been someone's muse before."

"I assure you, you honor me by allowing yourself to occupy my thoughts."

"M-May I see what you composed?"

He shook his head. "If I ever finish it, perhaps I will play it for you. Yes?"

"Yes," she agreed. She stretched out her arms, suddenly feeling energy surge through her. "What are your plans for today?"

"I should venture above and let Madame Giry know we have returned, and that we are safe. She was the one who informed me, after all, and I know she will nettle until I do so."

"May I come with you?"

"Of course."

"I will go change, then."

She might have scrambled out of bed a bit too hastily then, trying to mask her awkwardness with her enthusiasm for getting to go above. What had seemed like a dream last night now brought her discomfiture. How had she managed to say and do the things she had done? She could not blame her behavior on the single glass of wine she'd consumed.

No, she had meant every word and action. And she doubted she could ever willingly return to her own bedroom after _that_.

But now, she needed to put a little distance between herself and Erik. When she was around him, he clouded her thoughts with smoke and music, and she found herself unable to think about much else.

She hurried back to her bedroom, the blankets all too obviously neatly made and abandoned. Her other clothes still carried the scent of travel, and so she elected for her spare set of mourning garb. Pulling on the drab black layers, she could feel herself reentering the mourning state of mind that had now haunted her for weeks. She knew this was only the beginning of her time spent in black; mourning a parent was expected by society to last at least a year.

And she had not even yet been able to visit his grave. An event that she both yearned for and dreaded.

She plucked at the black lace on her sleeves in an almost fond manner, then settled at her vanity to pin up her hair.

Erik was waiting for her in the sitting room, fully dressed for their excursion. His eyes glittered behind his full mask, and Christine remembered a comment Nadir Khan had once made about the mask. Apparently, Erik had one that exposed his mouth, but he had not donned it since Christine had known him. She understood if his captors had not allowed anything but this one, but why had he not changed it out since returning home?

For a moment, she worried it was due to her, but she pushed that thought aside as she pulled on her gloves.

"What time is it anyway?" she asked as he helped her swing her cloak onto her shoulders. She had not thought to look at the clock on the mantle before inquiring.

"Quite early, actually. Too early for even the groundskeepers to start their meddling. If we time it right, we can make it before sunrise."

"Make what?" she asked, but he only shrugged lengthy shoulders and stretched out a black-gloved hand to her.

She took it, his hand now a familiar length of bony digits and broad palm. Even the trip across the lake had become more the settling into a comfortable routine rather than traversing a dark, mysterious depth. Like usual, they spoke little during the journey out of the cavern, and she enjoyed the easy silence, soaking up the pinging sounds of the water and the cold echoes of their footfalls off the stone.

When they reached the inside passages of the Palais Garnier, he took her through one of the swinging mirrors directly into a dressing room. Before they knew it, they were openly walking the marbled halls of the opera house, something she had never done with Erik by her side. Only their own lantern shown in the darkness, but she started when he boldly strode out the front doors of the opera house itself.

She tugged on his hand, alarmed. "Erik, are you certain-"

"Come. We have but a short time until the rest of the city awakes."

He pulled her along with him, and suddenly, they were striding down the wide expanse of stone steps in front of the Palais Garnier. Their cloaks billowed behind the both of them, both of them clothed in the same black color as the sky.

"I am afraid we have little to eat in the kitchen," he said over his shoulder as they began to walk down the side of the street. "If there is anything you want, we can make a list for Madame Giry. She usually handles my personal shopping."

"I could do that. Handle your shopping, I mean." His eyes again flashed over his shoulder and down to her, and she felt herself grow warm in the face. "It should be safe now for me to venture above, right? I am happy to do it."

He grunted noncommittally, but she did not believe he was dismissing her ability to run errands for the both of them – she had handled herself for quite some time, after all. No, she suspected there was another reason for his hesitation. Was she not as safe as she thought? Here they were, walking aboveground together as though this was always a normal event in the morning for them. Could she not do the same… like a wife might?

She wished he would simply talk _plainly_ to her.

Erik ducked between buildings about a block from the opera house. Christine could smell the warm freshness of yeast rising before she caught sight of a little shop built into the bottom floor. While the rest of Paris seemed nonetheless asleep, the lanterns in this cozy place were blazing, and she could see people rushing about through the windows.

Erik sided up to one of the smaller windows, which was cracked open a hand's width. He motioned for her to press against the wall behind him, then tapped his knuckles against the wood frame of the window.

"I thought perhaps you were dead, monsieur," came a man's voice from the window.

"I am hard to kill," Erik replied. "At least you have not forgotten me, no? Do you have anything for me?"

"I admit, I stopped setting out your favorite cup of coffee on Sundays a long time ago. But give me a moment. I think I kept the copy of _Le Petit Journal_ from last week – the one for today is running late. I hear the cover is in color!"

There was silence for a moment, then a printing was slid through the opening of the window. Christine caught a glance of the cover – an exaggerated illustration of some political figures – before Erik rolled the document and slipped it into his cloak.

"My thanks," he said, placing a few coins on the windowsill.

"No, monsieur, this is too much!"

"To make up for the days I have been absent. What pastries do you have fresh this morning?"

The man gave a laugh. "You wish to eat? And here I thought you came only for newspapers and gossip. You know I am the best bakery in all of Paris! Name what you want."

Looking over his shoulder, Erik peered down at Christine. She raised her eyebrows at him, but she obliged. "I would love anything with a bit of chocolate in it." It had been so long since she had a treat like that, so why not?

"I have just the thing," the man said, overhearing her. There was the sound of a paper bag rustling, and he thrust the parcel at Erik. "I will ignore the fact that you have a lady friend with you this morning, monsieur. But she sounds quite lovely, if I may say so."

"You may not," Erik replied tartly, but the man only grunted and swept the coins off the wooden sill.

"Until next week," he said. "I will certainly be better prepared now that you've returned."

Erik murmured a goodbye, and the two of them were off again, retracing their steps toward the Palais Garnier. A bit of lighter blue sky was beginning to highlight the tops of the buildings now although the streetlights were still shining. Christine buzzed with curiosity. One thing was at least clear to her now: Erik had led a whole life before being imprisoned below MASE, one filled with routine and purpose and people with whom he conversed.

As they reentered the opera house, Erik led her not between the walls, as she expected and was accustomed to, but rather the paths beyond those patrons might take. The stairways and passages of service and maintenance men, of managers and stage crew, were narrower and darker than the opulent and expansive spaces beyond them, and Erik's lantern did little to light but the steps before them.

"Where are we going next?" Christine asked.

"Up," he said, taking her hand as they began to climb another staircase.

The further up they went, the harder the climb became until they were mounting winding steps more ladders than staircases. Erik held fast to her hand now, his other clutching the lantern, their parcels gleaned from the baker stowed somewhere on his person.

At last, they reached a narrow flight of stairs that ended in a tiny metal door. Erik swiftly picked the single bolted lock and pushed open the door with his elbow. The warm glow of morning sunlight spilled freely onto Christine's face as she stepped out onto the roof of the Palais Garnier.

The sight made her gasp. Even from her attic apartment, she had never seen such a view. Although the sunlight streamed from the east to warm her cheeks, the rest of Paris still lay in gray darkness, but she could see that would not last. The dismissal weather of the past week was not in sight this morning, and the edge of the world seemed to curl across the horizon, the view clear and cloudless.

The edge of the roof dropped just before her, but Erik only tightened his grasp, setting down the lantern near the door before urging her to climb another set of short, white stone steps until they were poised at the very top of the opera house, all of Paris spread before her in every direction.

Erik unfastened his cloak and laid it beneath the Apollo statue, even though she wore her own. "Sit with your back against the parapet here," he said, gesturing. "The edge helps to block the chill of the wind. The shadow here will also hide us from prying eyes for a while yet."

She did so, her legs tucked under her, the black folds of her mourning gown melding with the black fabric of his cloak. He eased himself next to her, his long legs fanning down the steps, and procured the bag from the bakery.

"Breakfast? Jean-Joseph was not boasting about his skills with an oven."

"You paid him quite handsomely for some pastries and a newspaper," she remarked, taking the bag from him. Inside were four _pain au chocolat_ , still warm, and she grinned with delight.

His eyes landed on her as she gingerly held the delicate bread between two fingers and bit into the corner, the flaky layers splitting around her lips. "I pay him for his discretion," he said. "His silence is worth the extra francs every week."

She took another bite, loving the warmth of the bread, the crunchy layers, the sweet, gooey chocolate within. She did not miss the way Erik watched her, but he shook his head when she offered him one of the others. A second one was quickly devoured, her mouth and hands wiped on the handkerchief given by the man at her side.

Why would Erik pay the baker for coffee and newspapers and gossip when he could easily glean all three from Madame Giry? Her answer, she supposed, was present here upon this roof. When one could have the freedom to do such things, who would not enjoy?

Her eyes trained on the golden sunlight creeping up the tops of Parisian multistoried buildings. Most of the dwellings and offices around here were tall, but she could see beyond them the quainter houses she had viewed during her travel to Evry and back, as well as the rolling hills beyond.

She felt a pressure upon one of her hands and found Erik had sided closer to her. His long thumb swept over her knuckles, too many layers of glove between them, before the lifted them to the mouthpiece of his mask.

"I would give you all of Paris, Christine, if I could."

She smiled at him gently. "Now, what would I do with a city?"

"Rule over it. Burn it to the ground. Mold it into whatever life you wish to have. I want you to need for nothing, to want for nothing; I want to banish those furrows that form between your brows when you are in grief." His eyes, even more golden in the morning sun, flickered over her face. She could hardly stand the intensity. "You have brought light into my life again, but I fear I have not done the same for you."

She shook her head. Taking his hand as he had done hers, she pressed his broad, bony knuckles to her own lips, felt the tremble in the digits. "I do not need an entire city, especially when I am with you. May I… may I kiss you?"

She did not wait for a reply. Although she gave him sufficient time to pull back, she steadfastly reached and pushed his mask up enough to expose the strong line of his jaw, the straight curve of his lower lip. Then she chased the sight, pressing her lips to his, ignoring the way the fabric of his mask scratched unpleasantly. He shuddered a breath, and she felt his arm come around her to pull them closer together.

She could not help the smile that caused their teeth to click together a moment before she returned his embrace, her own arms around his neck. Here they sat upon the roof the Palais Garnier itself, all of Paris waking below them, and Christine could have continued ignoring the rest of the world forever if only he would hold her. His arm anchored her, his hand heavy upon her hip, and they kissed and kissed with a languid pace that stretched into eternity.

 _I love you_ , she thought, and she silently passed the words from her lips to his.

When they both needed more air, they broke apart. Erik knocked his mask back down to cover his face, but he did not otherwise move away, his arm remaining around her waist.

"Thank you," she murmured, "for taking me up here and sharing the view with me. May we do this next Sunday as well?"

"An easy request to fulfill."

They stayed like that for a long while, entwined with each other, until the warmth of the sun began to banish the chill of the roof that had soaked through the layers she wore. Finally, though when her legs began to feel stiff, Erik gave her one last squeezing embrace and stood, knees popping.

"More pedestrians are starting to wander about, and we might be noticed if we stay any longer. Shall we see if Madame Giry has yet arrived?"

She nodded, and they made their way back down the narrow white steps to the metal door that led back inside the opera house. Erik picked up the lantern and offered his other hand again as the metal door swung shut behind them. For his support, she was grateful, her eyes needing time to readjust to the impenetrable darkness beneath the roof.

She quickly missed the crisp morning air of outside, but she was eager to view more of the inner workings of how musical productions were run. However, they had only gone halfway down the first steep staircase when Erik paused, causing her to bump against him.

She found herself swept against the wood of the stairway. Erik took full advantage of the angle of steps that caused them to be of more equal height, nearly knocking off his own hat when he wrenched up his mask in order to crush their mouths together. He surged against her, the line of his body pressing the full length of hers, knees overlapping with knees, pinning her to the dusty wall. She cared not, let him devour her, opened her lips to take him deeper still, dug her nails into his back lest he try to retract too soon.

When he did part from her, he pressed his bare face against her neck above the lace of her collar, panting hot gasps for air. "Forgive me."

"I shan't if you do not kiss me again," she said breathlessly.

A sound bubbled up from him, part laugh, part yearning. And he met her lips with his own again. His hands fanned great lengths across her back, and how she wished no layers separated them that she might feel the rough texture of his fingertips on her skin.

She knew they could not stay perched in the rafters for much longer. She sighed into his lips and stroked his sallow cheek before he could cover it again, holding onto him until her heart calmed its frantic beating.

"I love you," she said, this time aloud, and he returned the expression, his eyes glowing with unsuppressed longing.

They continued their decent from the roof. The twists and turns both within the walls and along marble corridors were starting to become familiar to her. A month ago, she never could have guessed this opulent building would become her new residence. Erik did not bother hiding their presence as they roamed; apparently, few people came to the Palais Garnier on early Sunday except the three who already knew about him.

"How long have you and Madame Giry known each other?" she asked as she trailed after him.

His hesitation was unmistakable. "Quite some time," he said at last. "Truly, ever since I came to Paris. It is… a mutually beneficial affiliation. She aids in managing my affairs, and while she does a more than passable job with the ballet troop, I ensure that the rest of the hired talent continues to improve."

"Is that why the Palais Garnier's productions suffered while you were gone? They did not have your help?"

He gave a bit of a snort. "I do more than help, my love. I _am_ the artistic director!"

They arrived at Madame Giry's office; a bit of an odd matter to arrive at the door rather than from within the walls. Erik tapped a knuckle against the door, and the ballet mistress's voice answered in greeting.

"Alive after all, I see," she said, sparing him a glance as they entered the small office. "When you missed the first read-through of the next libretto two days ago, I feared the worst again. I suppose it is beneath you to at least send a note."

He touched the tip of his hat to her in greeting. "Sometimes even I am called away."

"Good morning, madame," Christine said, stepping around Erik. "I hope all is well?"

Madame Giry's fierce expression softened, but only barely. "He has you up and about early today, does he not? Just because the man runs from sleep does not mean you have to follow suit."

"Sometimes a sunrise is worth it," Christine laughed. "I become restless when left behind anyway."

"Erik's shadow today, hmm?"

Erik shrugged his cloak back around his broad shoulders. "Actually, I must go pay for Cesar's keep. Will you be all right here for a time?" he said to Christine. "I should return within an hour."

Madame Giry waved him off. "Cease your hovering, man. I will ensure that the girl is still here… this time."

She seemed unaffected by his answering glower. However, he acquiesced, merely tipped his hat at her once again, bid Christine goodbye, and exited the room, this time slipping behind the mirror that was nearly as tall as Christine. From there, he would quickly find his way into the sewers, traversing across Paris to the stable where they had left Cesar.

Once it was only Christine and the ballet mistress in the small office, Madame Giry turned back to the papers on her desk, thin wire-framed spectacles perched upon her narrow nose. Christine settled into a chair opposite the desk, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. The last time she had been with Madame Giry, she had indeed run off.

Clearing her throat, she noticed the mock-up of a poster design pinned to the wall. " _The Marriage of Figaro_? Is that going to be the Palais Garnier's next production? Erik has not said, and I… missed the preview last week."

Madame Giry's thin mouth turned down at the corners, the only indication she had heard Christine. She continued to shuffle papers, scratching with her pen across various pages.

Christine could allow this discomfiture to continue, or she could press forward. And she was quite done with speaking in circles. "Madame, I-"

Madame Giry picked up a newspaper laid upon the side of her desk and tossed it at Christine with a fluttery thump of pages. She recognized it as the new Sunday issue of _Le Petit Journal_ immediately, and dread settled heavily within her belly.

In color, a full spread illustration depicted a sandy-haired young man lying prone in a country courtyard. Around him, two others as well lay dead. An arm belonging to an unseen person held a smoking pistol.

The caption in French at the bottom of the illustration glared up at her: " _Scandal rocks the Parisian elite_." And in smaller print below: " _Comte de Chagny demands answers about second son's murder._ "

Christine knew her face had gone pale. Her hands shook as she picked up the printing and read the several-page article. Much of the truth was in the reporting, but it was riddled with holes and suppositions. The Vicomte de Chagny, it said, had gone to Evry to settle business with Monsieur Martel. At his side had been his fiancé, who he had previously reported missing – Christine's name was not mentioned, which was a small comfort. _Le Petit Journal_ raised more questions that it attempted to answer in its usual fashion of pushing gossip over factual news.

Erik, she knew, would be furious.

Placing the publication back atop the desk, she wet her lips. "Madame Giry."

The older woman held up a hand. "Answer me plainly: is Erik responsible for the Vicomte's death?"

"No, he is not."

Madame Giry leaned back in her chair. "The gendarmerie were already here yesterday, my girl. They will likely return and perhaps with the Comte himself with them. As you read, the journal mentioned that the Vicomte was a patron here, and so now the Palais Garnier is a target, in the news for all the wrong reasons. While the managers might believe that a scandal can equal seats filled, my standards are much higher."

Christine swallowed past her rising fears. "So much of that article was either stretched truths or outright lies."

"What am I supposed to believe?" Giry said, spreading her hands. "I wish I could trust you, could trust _him_. I have been content until now to allow his business to remain his business as long as he continued to improve the Palais's ranking among other opera houses across the world. But now his dealings in the shadows have caused trouble upon my own doorstep."

"Erik is innocent in this!"

"That man is never innocent, and you are fooling yourself if you ever believe otherwise."

Christine choked back a sob. Madame Giry's words stung, cutting her deeply across old wounds that had not healed. "Perhaps you have never truly known him as I have, if you could say such a hateful thing. Erik had no choice in anything that happened with Raoul. If anything, it was all my fault."

"If you are attempting to cover for him –"

"I am not! _I_ am the one who went to Raoul believing he could give me answers about my father's murder. _I_ am the reason Erik was forced to come with us to Evry, to Monsieur Martel's chateau there."

She could not help the tears that flushed her vision. All of the events from the past few days welled up within her and spilled forth. She was unsure if she should do such a thing, but she told the woman what had happened with Raoul in quick detail, ending with the fact that she and Erik had only just arrived back in Paris yesterday.

When she was finished, they both sat in silence for a while. Christine's shoulders shuddered, gradually smoothing out as she calmed herself.

"My dear girl," Madame Giry murmured. "You can hardly blame yourself for the follies of evil men, especially one who has now paid his due with his life."

Christine accepted the handkerchief Giry passed her and cleaned her face. "I am so sorry that this has started to affect you here, madame."

Giry breathed a sigh. "Now that I know the truth, and what you have already told the gendarmerie, I cannot be taken by surprise again. I am the one who must apologize for my earlier words about our dear Monsieur le Fantôme. I spoke in haste… and in fear. But you must understand my position: I have to protect my daughter, even if this means allowing someone else to take the fall."

Christine let those words settle over her. She knew the older woman held fondness for Erik, and she felt confident that Madame Giry would not lie to implicate the innocent. But her meaning was clear.

Christine took a deep breath. "I am in love with him."

To her surprise, Madame Giry only nodded. "I suspected as much. Have you told him?"

"Yes."

"And has he said the same to you?"

"He has." And here she could not help but flush.

Madame Giry saw the red spread across her cheeks and narrowed her eyes. " _Mon Dieu_ , please tell me he has remained a gentleman!"

Christine shifted in her seat. If anything, _she_ was the one who had not remained a lady. "I… approached him, but he – he stopped before anything progressed. Oh, madame! Everything has become such a mess! He says he wants to marry me, but in the same breath, he runs from me. I fear this news will only drive us further apart, and I so desperately want to be with him, and I am realizing I know so little about how marriage works." Those hated tears came again, and she swiped at them angrily. "Madame, I fear I overstep the bounds of our own relationship, but I have no one else to speak to of these matters."

"Calm yourself, girl," Giry said, rising from her chair. She strode to the door and slid home the bolt, then went to the mirror that hung in her room, popping open the secret passage and peering within before closing it. Looking, Christine realized, for an eavesdropping Erik.

"Madame?"

"I have never told anyone how he and I met, not even Monsieur Khan. I suppose both of us would like to forget such events occurred for they are not pleasant memories of which to speak. However, my dear, if marriage is what your heart desires, then you must know."

That now-familiar feeling of dread in her stomach spiked again. Would nothing ever come easily for her? No, she thought, giving herself a mental shake. Nothing had and that was why she valued every moment she was able to spend in happiness with Erik. Every kiss, every touch of his hand, every time his eyes locked with hers, she knew what she wanted her future to be. Adversity only made her all the more driven to obtain that reality.

"Please, madame. I have been through too much to run from difficulty now."

Giry pulled a chair closer to Christine and sat, folding her hands in her lap. "When Meg was only a babe, I went to a traveling circus on the outskirts of the city. There, I saw a young man confined to a cage, clearly against his will. His face was covered with a potato sack with two eye holes from which to peer. There was a sign stating that his appearance would be revealed during the show as part of his act."

"Erik." Christine pressed a hand to her mouth, but while she was horrified, she had already known Erik's confinement in the basement of MASE had not been his first. "What did you do?"

"Perhaps it was because I carried Meg in my arms – no mother should have their child contained like an animal. Perhaps it was because my husband had passed and I felt particularly rash. I plucked several pins from my hair and tossed them into his cage. If he was clever enough, I thought, then he deserved to be able to pick his way out."

"And he did."

"He did. When I saw him years later, standing dressed as though for the opera, a black mask concealing all but his mouth, I knew immediately who he was. I let him hide in the lower cellars of the Palais Garnier, and it was years yet before he emerged again, this time with a plan for how to improve the inner workings of the opera house."

Christine knew that sometime after escaping the fair, Erik must have met Nadir Khan. Chewing on the inside of her lip, she put the pieces of Erik's life together in her mind. When he had fled Persia, parting from Nadir, he had come back to Paris and contacted the only person he had known here.

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"So that you will understand one thing: Erik has always lived beyond the realm of society, whether by his choice or forced into it by others. I know very little about what happened to him before the circus, but there is no record of his birth, no papers that even prove he exists as the French citizen he likely is." She met Christine's wide gaze. "Marrying him under French law will undoubtedly be-"

"Impossible."

That word. That hated word. She now understood what Erik had already known. He had tried to protect her by pushing her away, had he not? She could not stand the pitying look Madame Giry gave her.

"I am sorry, _mon petite_ ," the woman said.

Erik's voice cut through any next words they might have exchanged, blasting its way into Giry's office from the mirror:

"That is enough."


	25. Parting

**This chapter is rated M for mature. We are getting close to the end, folks. Buckle up.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 25: Parting**

Erik stepped out of the mirror as it swung open on hidden hinges. His eyes flashed as darkly as the black fabric of his mask. Christine hated the guilt she suddenly felt, especially when she had done nothing wrong but seek advice.

Despite the anger that rolled off him like fog, Madame Giry merely leaned back in her chair and leveled her own glare upon him.

"Do not come in my office with such an attitude," she said. "You clearly have not been upfront with this girl about your past."

His arm gestured stiffly, his cloak snapping back in an arc. "I should be able to leave without fear that you are overstepping your bounds, madame. You and Daroga both – it is a wonder that I have tolerated such meddling for so long."

"Monsieur Khan and I are two of the only people who can tolerate your abuse." She steepled her long fingers. "If you had any sort of common decency, you would court her like a gentleman."

Erik puffed at that, seeming to swell in size. Christine looked between him and the older woman; they both seemed to have forgotten that she sat there in the room.

She stood, causing two pairs of eyes to snap to her. "I am obviously not needed for this conversation. If you will excuse me, I will see what I can glean from the kitchens for lunch. I am certain you can find me when you are done."

"Christine-" Erik began.

She held up a silencing hand. "You and I shall speak in private later. Madame," she said to Giry, "I thank you for the news and conversation."

The woman gave a sharp nod. Without another look at Erik, Christine strode out of the door of the office, ignoring the mirror still cracked open to the hidden passage within the walls. She was no phantom to wander hidden inside the dark crevices of the opera house. On this Sunday, when few people would be working, she would walk as any other person might.

Erik did not follow her. Madame Giry's voice rose up again as the door swung shut behind her, but Christine strode quickly down the hall, leaving them behind. Her thoughts spun out in directions she did not want to venture, but she pushed them aside and tried to focus upon finding her way out of the rows of offices and other small rooms.

For a while, Christine navigated the familiar halls of the Palais Garnier. She found the little library and flipped through its books until her stomach started rumbling for food. The modest kitchens held the remnants of meals prepared the day before, and as Erik had not come for her yet, she ate without him, munching on a wedge of cheese, the hard crust of a baguette, and an apple that crunched too loudly in the empty passages.

Eventually, she settled herself in one of the rear chairs of the orchestra and propped her feet on the back of the seat in front of her. No one was around to see her do such a forbidden thing, and the small act of rebellion in the theater that Erik claimed as his own made her feel a tiny bit better. If Papa was here, he might have admonished her… but he was not, was he? All she had now was the memory of him.

And even when she had found his violin, she had been forced to leave that behind.

She leaned back in the seat and let her head rest. Most of the lights in the auditorium were burning low, so the colorful ceiling lay predominantly in shadow. Closing her eyes, she recalled a tune Papa had often played on his violin – an old Swedish tune that had always eased her heart when she was troubled.

She found the shape of the words with her lips and allowed the music to flow from her throat. Although she stayed soft, the familiarity helped to soothe the anger she had felt earlier. For a while, she enjoyed letting the notes take hold of her.

Until she heard a slow clap coming from near the stage.

She nearly strangled on the final note, sitting up to look at the tall, long-limbed man standing a dozen rows away. He was dressed in a black suit, a black top hat fixed upon his sandy-blonde hair. He looked like a taller, thinner Raoul, and even though Christine had never seen him before, she knew immediately who he was.

"I thought the public wasn't allowed in here during off hours," he said far too casually. "However, you aren't a member of the public, are you?"

"P-Pardon?" she said, easing to her feet and clutching the seatback in front of her.

Philip de Chagny continued as though he had not heard her. "The servants gave quite a detailed description of you, but your mourning garb gives it away, Christine Daaé." His head tilted to the side in a contemplative way. "If I squint hard enough, I can almost see why my brother was so taken with you. Tell me – did you sing like that after spreading your legs for him?"

"I- I _never-_ "

She cut off her own protest as he began to move down the row. Soon, only an open aisle would separate them, and from his hostile tone, she did not want him to draw too closely.

He continued his steady approach, picking up speed with a lanky stride. "How lucky am I to find you here. So many told me how foolish it was to focus on the opera house, but here you are! I have so many questions for you, and you _will_ give me answers."

Christine glanced around, seeking the nearest exit. Philip de Chagny was closing the gap between them too quickly, and she felt panic well within her. She stumbled over a row of seats, yanking her skirts along with her, and dashed down the steps that led beneath the first balcony. From there, she had to decide whether to continue downward to the hallway there or straight ahead where the grand staircase loomed.

Suddenly, he was too close, right behind her, and he lurched forward, swiping at her arm. "You will stop!" he snarled, his pale face blooming red with anger. From far away, she might have thought he resembled Raoul, but close up, his face was too narrow with too many lines cutting deep into his forehead and cheeks.

She jerked away from him, and in her panic, she went for the closest exit. To the immediate left and right were coat racks separated from the hall by low wooden walls. Christine did not waste time on trying to push open the short door that led to the racks, instead sitting on the wall and swinging her legs across.

But Philip was right there, grabbing onto her skirts, trying to prevent her from getting away. Her arms pinwheeled as she fell backward, hitting her head and shoulders on the wall. Her vision swam, but she was still aware of hands upon her, Raoul's brother lurching over the wall after her. She kicked out, feeling her heel connect.

He let out a howl and let go of her, and she scrambled to her feet. Despite the panic flooding her system, she managed to find the latch that triggered the wall to open in the back of the coat closet. As she slid within the secret passage, she glanced back. Philip de Chagny cupped his nose, blood streaming between his fingers, glaring at her as she shoved the wall closed behind her.

Her chest heaved, tears flooding her eyes. She had enough presence of mind to slide the bar like Erik had taught her, the failsafe to lock the entrance in case she was followed.

She felt her way in the all-encompassing darkness until she could no longer hear the Comte banging upon the wall. And then she slumped to the dusty, narrow floor, buried her face in her knees, and wept.

* * *

She was not certain how long she waited there between the walls of the opera house. Perhaps she could have felt her way to another secret exit, but she no longer felt safe wandering the halls alone. Her tears had long since dried on her cheeks, her muscles weary from sitting on cold concrete, when the glow of a lantern illuminated her surroundings.

Erik crouched beside her, his eyes roaming over her appearance, no doubt taking in her disheveled hair, dirty clothing, and the mess of her face.

"Are you hurt?" he asked softly.

 _Yes,_ she thought. _Yes, my heart is injured._ But she only shook her head and told him what had happened with Philip de Chagny.

His eyes blazed with fury. "Wait here a moment." Straightening, he left the lantern with her and stepped over her to head back the way she had come.

"Did I lock it correctly?" she asked when he returned.

He bent and stroked her cheek. "You did marvelously. I only adjusted the bar to make the fix permanent. Now that this passage is compromised, we shan't use it again. I am proud of how you handled yourself, little bird. I only wish I had been there."

He took her elbow and helped her to rise. Her body felt sore and worn out now that the adrenaline had faded from her system.

"What time is it?"

"Late," he said, taking up the lantern with his other hand. "Forgive me for leaving you alone for so long. It will not happen again."

She was grateful to have the strength of his sure fingers around hers as they followed the path back to the coolness of the fifth cellar. She noticed that he checked the hidden exits that they passed, no doubt ensuring that their inside locks were still in place. When Philip had watched her disappear between the walls, a line had been crossed that they could not recover. An outsider knew now that secret passages lurked.

They had been compromised.

Erik seemed to sense her melancholy mood as he held the boat steady for her to climb within. Neither of them had spoken since they began their decent.

"You made the right decision in escaping as quickly as you could," he said, using the pole to push across the smooth surface of the lake.

Christine hugged her arms across her middle. "I doubt he will keep the information to himself. About seeing me. And about the passage."

"What is done is done. We cannot change what has happened. I would not be surprised if he returned with reinforcements to force the doorway open, but I have sealed off where that hall leads. Perhaps he will not get far."

"And if he does get far?" The words stuck in her throat.

"I would mourn the loss of being able to travel unseen within the opera house. But let me ease your worry about anyone finding our home. No one can make it beyond the first cellar."

She did not ask him how he could be so sure. She could guess the precautions he had made, and only Nadir Khan knew how to reach the house on the far shore. Not even Madame Giry had the privilege.

Still, the two of them slipped into silence after that, and Christine was left with her own thoughts for far too long. Philip's words echoed in her head, digging deep into the hidden places on her heart. She knew he spoke out of anger, out of grief, but even so, she had not expected such venomous words from a stranger.

They crossed the still waters of the lake, but on the far shore, Erik held up a hand for her to halt. The door to the house was firmly closed as usual; however, Christine could see what had made him pause.

A pair of muddy brown boots were arranged neatly beside the portico.

"We have a visitor," Erik said, but even after their prior conversation, he did not seem too bothered.

Indeed, the front door was unlocked, and Erik swung it open on silent hinges. Christine caught sight of a brown coat hanging on the rack, half soaked with mud and rain, and she brightened, recognizing the astrakhan cap perched atop it.

Erik peered over his shoulder at her, a single finger raised to his lips. She nodded. They both crept forward into the house. A figure slumped in an armchair in front of the fire, his bare feet stretched out toward the warmth. Damp socks hung on the hearth. His chest rose and fell evenly.

Monsieur Khan.

Christine would have stopped Erik from waking the sleeping Persian, but a copy of _Le Petit Journal_ was shoved under his arm, and she knew they could not wait. Erik toed Nadir's leg, and the other man grunted, squinting open an eye to look hazily up at Erik.

"There you are," Monsieur Khan said, clearing the roughness from his voice. "What time is it?"

"Half past six," Christine replied after glancing at the clock on the mantle. "How long have you been here, monsieur?"

Nadir groaned, sitting more upright. "Only about an hour. Forgive these old bones their exhaustion, but I rode my horse hard the entire way here. Poor gal probably won't make it." He peered more clear-eyed at them both. "If you have been above, then perhaps you have seen this." And he gestured at the newspaper.

It was the same copy Christine had seen in Madame Giry's office. While Erik picked it up to read, she stalked over to the coat rack and swung off her cloak to hang. She stayed by the door while pulling off her gloves and unpinning her hat, well aware of how Erik had begun to pace.

Erik tossed the paper back to Nadir. "It seems the news of what transpired with Martel beat you back to Paris. Why bother running your horse into the grave?"

"To warn you." Nadir leaned forward, tested his socks, and finding them sufficiently dry, began to pull them on. "The Vicomte's family are not listening to the gendarmerie's findings. This should have been a clear-cut investigation, especially with Martel's sworn testimony."

"Then what happened? _You_ were there to see it through, were you not?"

"Unfortunately, I was… released from the case."

Christine came back over, clutching her skirt nervously. "They fired you? Whatever for?"

Nadir swept a hand at himself. "I am afraid, my dear, that little reason is needed other than the obvious. Once the Vicomte's father heard that someone like me was working on the investigation, he demanded that I be removed. I learned what little more I could before word got around about my discharge, and then I headed back toward Paris immediately."

"I am so sorry, Monsieur Khan," Christine said, touching his arm.

"I am the one who is sorry that I won't be able to further help from within the system."

Erik's eyes were fierce, glowing with anger in the firelight. "The Comte himself was here today. He saw Christine."

Nadir frowned. "That won't help matters. The de Chagny estate has already stated that they believe Christine is further involved in matters than Martel is admitting. The surviving members of the Vicomte's gang spun a story about how she manipulated him into trying to steal from Martel. And some of the servants at the Vicomte's home place her there late at night just before she disappeared, implicating some sort of derelict relationship." He gave Christine a remorseful look. "I am sorry again, my dear, this time to speak to bluntly."

Christine did not like the look Erik was giving her. She knew she had told him what had happened when she had gone to Raoul's home, but she had never told him all the details of that night. With a snarl, he yanked off his wide-brimmed hat and strode to hang up his own hat and cloak. The way he swung the heavy black fabric from his shoulders revealed his tension; it was present in every movement he made, in the stiffness of his gait.

"They are twisting the truth to suit them," she said, raising her chin. "I am not at all culpable in Raoul's actions, but they wish to lay the blame at the feet of anyone but the member of their own family."

"Unfortunately," said Nadir, "this is a vicious habit of the aristocracy."

She twisted her fingers. "Perhaps if I went and explained to the father in person –"

"Out of the question," Erik cut her off. "You would be giving yourself over to their prosecution just as they wish." His eyes met that of the Daroga. "And besides, it is likely not you they truly want."

"W-What do you mean?"

Nadir Khan sighed heavily. "Pointing the finger at the daughter of a groundskeeper is likely beneath them, my dear. Admitting that the Vicomte was led astray by a slip of a girl will do little to raise society's deteriorating opinion of them. It is more likely that they are attempting to flush what they can from the shadows, even if it is only a means of diverting the attention of the papers."

Again, the Persian leveled a meaningful gaze at Erik, whose hands were fists at his sides. And again, Christine felt as though she was being left out of some other kind of conversation. These two men were speaking over her head, and she was suffocating under the weight of what they were hiding.

At once, Nadir had to hide a yawn behind his hand. "Forgive me, but the day's travels are catching up to me. I should be off to my apartment now. There is little we can do until morning." And he rose to his feet, his weariness evident in the slump of his shoulders.

"Please," Christine said, heart thumping too wildly. "Would you take my room? It is quite a long walk back to your home."

Nadir gave a nervous cough, glancing at Erik, who stood impassively. "I should think not. Don't you… need it?"

Her face heated. "I would manage otherwise. Please, would you? I would like to show my gratitude for the way you rushed here to warn us."

When Erik did not voice any sort of protest, Nadir nodded. "Thank you, mademoiselle. I am exhausted enough to sleep on the floor, so I shall sleep well indeed tonight in a bed."

"Give me a moment to change the bedding." She hurried about, pulling off the used sheets and tucking the new ones upon the mattress. After hiding any of her own personal effects, she returned to the parlor.

Erik and Nadir were talking in hushed voices, their heads closer together. Erik moved away when he saw her, his tension and anger still a swirling mix of emotion within him.

As he headed to the spare room, Nadir paused at the door, turning back to them. "I suggest you stay away from the opera house for some time, my friend," he said to Erik. "It would not do to be seen now."

He bid them both good-night. The door swung shut behind him, and Christine knew he would likely be asleep in an instant.

Erik leaned an arm on the mantle above the fireplace, staring into the flames with a piercing glare. "A prisoner once again," he muttered. "This time without chains, but a prisoner nonetheless."

Christine's heart ached. She could not help but feel responsible for this shift in events. She was the one the Comte had seen above, after all. But she recoiled at the thought that Erik likened this to being chained back in the basement of MASE. Surely at least he had better company? She shook her head to clear such ugly thoughts, knowing they were born of her own exhaustion.

Erik angled his gaze upon her. "You did not have to give up your bed."

"It was an easy way to thank him for all he has done for us."

He blew a snort behind his mask though he did not argue with her. "Such an unreasonable thought to believe this mess could be pushed behind us, yes?" He straightened off the mantle. "Are you hungry?"

"No." The last thing she wanted was heavy food in her belly.

"To bed, then. Let me collect what I need from the other bedroom, and then it is yours."

As he strode down the small hallway to his own room, Christine's heart thumped wildly inside her chest. That was it? After everything that had happened today, they would simply part for the night?

She followed him into the bedroom, her face flushing as she said, "Cannot the bedroom be _ours_?"

At that, Erik froze. Then he placed one hand against the banister of his bed as though to steady himself. "Christine."

"We shared the bed last night, did we not?"

He made a move that looked as though he might try to dart out of the room, but she closed the door at her back, blocking his avoidant exit.

He swallowed, throat bobbing beneath his mask. "We can no longer afford to be naïve in this, Christine."

"I am far removed from the young woman you first met." Although tears stung her eyes, her voice did not waver. "I know fully of that which I am speaking, and I know whole-heartedly what I want. I want to marry you."

" _Christine-_ "

"Impossible, you said. I remember the word. And while I apologize for the delicate conversation on which you eavesdropped, I do not regret discussing such a matter with Madame Giry. When you refuse to speak with me, I will seek my answers elsewhere! If marriage is impossible because of your lack of papers, then surely there must be a remedy."

At once, he drew up closer to her, his considerable height causing her to crane her neck to maintain eye contact. The line of his body pressed ever so slightly against hers. Her nostrils flared to draw in the scent of him – musky and dark, a swirl of something that caused desire to suddenly flood within her.

One of his hands outstretched and curled around her cheek. "This is not about the papers I lack. I am used to lying my way through life, and in this case, the lie is one I would not hesitate to make. If all I must do is lie to claim you, then I surely would have done so today."

"Then what is it?" she whispered, covered his hand with hers lest he pull it away.

His golden eyes cut away then, but then he seemed to decide something. "This attention upon you – in the papers, the Comte's visit here – all of it is intended to provoke me into coming out of hiding. When some of the Vicomte's men were left alive, I suspected they might try to save their own necks by telling the gendarmerie about my presence there."

"I don't understand. Monsieur Martel said he would keep you a secret."

"Even if Martel maintained he never saw me, the other men planted enough doubt for further investigation. The gendarmerie know someone was chained beneath MASE, they know someone helped you after your father died, they know enough for considerable doubt as to who exactly is responsible." His fingers flexed, the tips gently touching her hair. "I knew this would likely happen, but I have been too much of a coward to tell you."

She shook her head, refusing to believe it. However, memories clicked through her mind, pieces falling together, a puzzle made whole. Erik had tried to leave her with Martel, had he not? Even then, he must have suspected that a cage would slowly fall around him.

And he did not want her trapped with him.

She was stricken with a thought. "You… you are not going to turn yourself in, are you?"

"Oh, Christine!" He wrenched himself away, his shoulders hunching with despair, hands clutching his masked face. "I must!"

Christine would not let him stay apart from her for long. She grasped onto his arm, forced him to turn back toward her. "You cannot! You are no more responsible for Raoul's death than I am. And after all he did to me and Papa – after all he did to _you_ , he deserved… he deserved…"

"Those thoughts are beneath you, my love."

"He deserved what came to him, Erik!"

"And so shall I." His golden eyes swam with emotion. "Do not forget that I earned the nickname the papers have given me, I earned the moniker of _Strangler_ with the very hands you allow to touch you. Do not forget that I am merely a phantom who has taken human form, for certainly they shall never let you."

She took those bony hands and clutched them to her. "All I know is the man who rescued me, who has saved me time and time again. _That_ is the man who stands before me."

He shuddered. "Oh, little bird. Would that I could ever deserve you. Will you let me kiss you, Christine? This vile husk of a man?"

"Hush," she said, stroking the backs of his hands. "You will not speak that way of someone I love so dearly."

She reached and gently pried his mask from his face, allowing it to plop softly to the floor. Tears cut damp rivets down his sallow cheeks, and she thumbed the wetness away and pressed her lips to his. His lips parted with a gasp, and she dipped her tongue within, finding the slick warmth of his mouth a sensation that stirred hunger within her.

His arms came around her, lifting her to her toes, and he crushed their mouths together, his own tongue chasing hers. For a while, they just kissed and kissed, passing their own desperation between them like a shared cup of wine. She could not bear the thought of him leaving. She had already lost too much. Losing him would completely undo her.

She allowed their lips to part, both of them panting to catch their breath. Gazing up at him, she took in his appearance that he had sought to hide from the world – the hard ridges of his pale flesh, the hollow cheeks, the missing nose. She loved every part of him; she _wanted_ every part of him.

Reaching up, she grasped the edge of the wig he wore. He took a step back, eyes flaring wide, but she soothed him with soft sounds. "Be at ease, my love." She continued the motion, removing the copse of dark hair. "You may undo my hair next, yes?"

She set his wig aside on his bureau, then pulled one of the pins from her hair. After showing him, she turned her back on him and waited.

He did not disappoint. Fingers settled on her hair, their trembling noticeable, and began to pull each pin from her chignon with tender precision. Once her long locks were free, he gathered the curls in his hands and held them to his bare face, breathing deeply. Then he pressed against her from behind, his lips to her ear.

"What shall I remove next?"

Delighted, she turned around, nearly pinned between him and the dresser. She grasped onto the lapels of his coat. "May I?"

His eyes flashed, but he nodded. She pushed the heavy fabric from his shoulders, the weight of it dragging down his arms before falling to the floor. Wordlessly, he mimicked her, his deft fingers starting at her throat and flicking open each button from neck to navel on her bodice. Soon, her bodice had followed his coat.

She let out a nervous little laugh, which he cut off by stooping over for a kiss. He had seen all of her completely, so she should not have these butterflies doing loops within her stomach. However, tonight felt differently, less desperation and more a mutual acceptance that they wanted each other.

And now, with the cloudiness that hung over them, they would not stop until they had driven the fears from each other.

Hands shaking, she undid his necktie and flung it aside. "I have not a comparable article of clothing, monsieur," she said, feeling breathless.

"A welcome advantage," he quipped.

He found the tie of her overskirt and tugged on it until the black fabric came free, pooling at her feet. The protruding cage of her bustle embarrassed her, but he only raked his eyes down her form, the look he gave her setting her blood boiling. Next was his waistcoat, followed by her bustle, and the toeing off of his shoes, and then the rest of her skirts soon followed until they were standing in puddles of fabric.

"Take me to bed," she whispered.

He gathered her in his arms and set her on the edge of the expansive black satin coverlet. Then he knelt before her and unlaced each of her boots almost reverently. His mouth was hot against her stockinged ankle as he kissed the delicate bone there, then again at her knee as he met the hem of her chemise. Then he pressed lips to her hipbone, to her ribs, to the exposed ridge of her collar, and then finally, to her own lips.

"And here I am afraid is my own disadvantage," he said, stretching out beside her on the bed. One hand rested on her thigh, curving warmly there. The other cupped part of his face. "I have been able to bask in your loveliness, but you… you have not seen me. I am not a handsome man, Christine, and this body has often – has often paid for it."

In one quick motion, she straddled him. His sharp hipbones dug into the backs of her thighs, but that is not all she felt pressing intimately into her through the layers of clothing that still separated them. His eyes were a startled roundness, but they were dark with longing. She unbuttoned his shirt at his throat, working her way down until she could press a kiss to his collar much like he had hers. She kissed the significant rise of his ribs, finding the ridges of scars there. By the time she had unbuttoned to the concave dip of his stomach, he was shaking beneath her.

Leaning forward, she pressed her cheek to his quivering skin, curling herself atop him. "I love you, Erik."

He moaned softly. For a moment, they hung in suspension. Then he surged upward, flipping her onto her back, her thighs spread wide across his hips. "My turn," he said, tugging free the rest of his shirt.

When she tried to touch his bared chest, he nudged away her hands, but it was an improvement from last night. She acquiesced to his need to not be touched, instead allowing her eyes to feast on the exposed paleness of his skin shining in the firelight, on the magnificence of how he towered over her.

His hands slipped under her chemise. His fingertips trailed lightly over her ribs and found the underswell of her breasts. She arched under him, encouraging such advantages. Fingers grazed her nipples, pinching lightly, and she squirmed, feeling herself grow warmer still, beginning to throb between her thighs.

"Please, Erik. I-I need…"

He bent and his lips found the tip of one breast through the linen of her chemise. The wet heat made her cry out with pleasure, and her hips bucked against his, beginning to seek a friction she did not understand.

"Gods, you are beautiful," she heard him say. His hand slid down her belly to the waistband of her drawers. "May I?"

"Please, oh please!"

His other hand, his mouth, continued to work her breasts, but her focus soon came upon the fingers pulling her drawers free and slipping between her thighs. She realized the dampness pooling there as he skirted one long finger along her cleft.

"My beautiful Christine," he murmured.

Her lashes parted to gaze up at him kneeling over her. She could see the scars from their recent struggles, the bruises in his sides turned green and dark. She placed her hands upon his forearms, feeling the tense muscles rippling there, but he did not ask her to remove them. This was so much more intimate than before. She felt herself bloom for him, opening to him in more ways than one.

"Will you… Erik, will you?" Her face burning, she could not quite get out the words. But oh, she wanted him desperately.

He pressed a reverent kiss upon her lips. "I would take you tonight if I could in good conscience, my love. I cannot, _I cannot_ , until we are wed." He sank down next to her on the mattress, pulled her close until they were aligned side by side. "I would love to touch you, if you would allow it, to bring you pleasure if I may receive such a gift."

"M-May I do the same to you?"

The next kiss was full of want, his lips crushing against hers. He took her hand and placed it upon the front of his trousers, and her heart leapt in her chest. She found the button there as his own hand slipped back under her chemise. Emboldened, she hooked her thigh over his hip, opening herself to his perusal, even as she undid the button of his trousers and slid her hand within.

A single finger ran along the slit between her legs before dipping within her core. The fit was tight, and the two of them groaned in unison. Almost like a response to feeling her, his hips canted toward her, and she felt the rigid shaft of him suddenly against her palm. Soft skin encased an unforgiving hardness, and for a moment, she was too fascinated to notice that Erik had shifted his hand, bringing his thumb against the nub between her legs.

They both cried out at once, and at once, they chased each other's sobs, their lips falling upon each other. Erik's hand worked between her legs, his fingers now slick with her, and she felt herself tightening, her muscles clenching against her will. Erik pumped into her palm in a way that seemed against his control, and she would have been more captivated by his loss of control if she herself had not been falling apart around his fingers.

The pressure built, his tongue flicked across hers, and suddenly she was spasming in new ways, throbbing around his finger, her body overcome with a rush of feeling so strong it brought tears to her eyes. She whimpered into his mouth and he shuddered and something fiercely hot and damp coated her hand. He drove himself against her once, twice more, then fell still, chest heaving.

He murmured against her forehead sweet words and affirmations. When he slipped his finger free, she gasped at the sensation. Her limbs were languid, her body heavy, and she lay still as he rolled off the bed and padded to the bathroom. She was aware that he wiped the two of them clean, and soon a pillow was under her head, the coverlet pulled to her chin.

"Stay with me," she whispered.

He did return, again wearing his shirt, on which she chose not to comment. As he laid next to her, she sighed with a new sort of contentment, giving a chuff of laughter when he reached out and pulled her across the bed to settle against him. He kissed her hair, and his arm was a welcome heaviness across her waist.

His words were soft in her ear, barely heard as she slipped under.

"My heart is yours, always."

When she woke, she was still in much the same position, having been too drained to shift in sleep. She had the grogginess of having slept less than she needed, but she could peer at the clock when her eyes were less heavy. Remembering last night, her lips curled.

She shifted, stretching, and that was when she noticed his absence. She rolled onto her back, felt the mattress with a unsteady hand, touched the cooling sheets.

Erik was gone.


	26. Found

**Getting to the end folks, so hold on tight. Another chapter and maybe an epilogue to go after this.**

* * *

 **Chapter 26: Found**

Christine bolted from the bed. The sheets where Erik had lain were cold to the touch, indicating that he had long been gone. Her clothes had been folded in neat stacks upon the bureau, and she pulled on the complicated layers as quickly as she could, her heart thumping wildly with worry.

She was still buttoning her bodice when she stepped into the sitting room. Nadir Khan sat by the fireplace, staring into the flames, swirling an amber liquid in a glass. He took a gulp when he saw her. As she drew close, she could see that his eyes were rimmed in dark red, and he wiped quickly at his face.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

"You already know," Nadir answered, voice breaking.

She swept her glare over him, at his rumpled clothing, at his teary, soulful brown eyes. She dashed forward and slapped the glass from his hand. It hit the thick carpet with a thud, not breaking, and a circle of wet darkness appeared. Nadir merely straightened as though he had expected such a response.

"How dare you not go after him!" she spat. "He is your friend, or at least I thought he was."

"He is as close to a brother as I will ever have," Nadir said, spreading his empty hands. "When he bade me to watch over you, I couldn't argue with him. His goal is to keep you safe, my dear, and neither of us could see any other way."

"Then I would say your field of view is very narrow indeed!"

Nadir took a deep, quavering breath. "Philip de Chagny came back this morning with an ax. He very much tried to hack his way through the walls of the opera house to find your whereabouts. I daresay he would've been successful if the managers had not stopped him. I doubt they'll be able to dissuade him for long, nor will the ballet mistress be able to hold her tongue. Sometimes we have our backs against a wall that can't be moved no matter how much we will it so."

Her hands balled into fists, nails cutting into her palms. Different responses swirled in her head, most of them born of anger. The fury within her left as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind only an empty sort of ache that threatened to consume her whole.

Finally, she said in a strangled whisper, "When did he leave?"

"About two hours ago."

She swallowed back a sob. Nadir swiped a hand across his reddened eyes.

"What am I supposed to do now?" she asked.

"Keep going." With a gesture, he indicated the piano. "He left you a letter when you are ready to read it."

Tears bubbled up within her now, spilling down her cheeks. She did not bother to wipe them away, knowing more would follow. Stumbling to the piano, she saw the crisp white of a folded piece of paper perched on the keys, Erik's red seal holding the edges shut. She took it up, but she could not bring herself to read it now.

That was when she saw the black case lying near the door.

"Monsieur Khan, what is that?"

He twisted around in the chair to see where she was pointing. "Ah… that is yours, my dear. I did make one stop on my way back to Paris – in Evry. I suppose you could say I stole it from the bank. Add thievery to my long list of recent misdeeds!"

Christine sank to her knees beside the cracked black case and ran her fingers over the shape she knew so well.

"The little box is in my satchel," he added. He began cleaning up the spilled drink before eventually staggering off to the bathroom.

She smoothed her palms over Papa's violin case, then unlatched the clasps and opened it. The papers from the wooden crate lay scattered atop the violin, and she gathered them up. Most were legal papers: records of Christine's birth and her parents' marriage.

The sealed letter that Raoul had opened was written in Charles's own hand.

 _Dearest Christine_ ,

 _I doubt this letter comes to you with glad tidings. Something must have happened to me for you to find this, as well as the violin. Forgive me for lying to you all these years about its whereabouts. I never stopped grieving your mother, and the sight of it reminded me too much of her. Many times I thought to throw it out, but I could not do such a thing to you._

 _While I can no longer bear hearing music in my life, I hope that one day, Christine, you will be able to enjoy those sweet sounds filling your home. I hope you find someone to start a new family with, to fill your days and nights with joy. I am so sorry that I could not provide better for you. I only hope that I was a good father to you in matters of the mind and heart and that you will always think fondly of the times we shared together._

 _I am so proud of the woman you have become. Your mother and I love you so very much. I will see you again soon, my beloved daughter._

 _Your father,_

 _Charles Daaé_

"Oh God, Papa."

Christine carefully put away the letter lest her tears dampen the paper. She missed him so much, and she wished he could be here with her now to help her understand what she should do next.

She fetched the decorative box from Nadir's satchel and sat at the piano bench with it. The scent of daffodils and crisp orange wafted to her nose as she opened it even though the perfume bottle was now missing. The picture of her parents stared up at her with smiling faces, herself as a baby asleep in her mother's arms.

She took the two golden rings and balanced them on her hand. Erik's letter gleamed white and red on the piano. She made a fist and the cool metal of her parents' rings bit into the flesh of her palm, stinging where they dug into the freshly-healed marks from Erik's chains.

When Nadir came up behind her, she placed the rings safely back inside the box.

"Fetch your cloak and hat, monsieur," she said as she closed the lid. She rose, turning around to meet his widened eyes. "We are going out."

"Christine-"

She ignored him, striding to the spare bedroom. Nadir had already cleaned up any sign that he had spent the night in her room. Pulling open one of her bureau drawers, she found amongst her underclothes the small bag of coin her father had pressed into her hands just before he had been killed.

Nadir had not moved from the center of the room. She shoved the bag at him.

"This should be enough to lease a carriage for the day, yes?" With a brisk quickness, she pinned her hat and tied her cloak at her throat. Then, she took up Erik's letter and slid it beneath the underside of her bodice. "I have had quite enough of goodbyes said in letters. If Erik wants to say parting words to me, then he may do so directly."

She paused in front of Nadir. "I am going to find him with or without your help, Monsieur Khan."

That roused him. "He will surely give me the noose for this," he muttered, but he was moving now, plopping his own hat atop his head and shrugging into his coat. He set the bag of coin on the piano bench. "I know where he keeps his cash. Hold a moment."

She pulled on her gloves as she waited, and soon he was tucking a billfold into the inside pocket of his coat.

"Thank you, monsieur."

He puffed a sigh. "I hope you have some ideas beyond simply walking into the nearest station house and asking if a masked man turned himself in."

"Actually, that is precisely what you are going to do."

He gave another loud sigh, but he obligingly followed her out the front door of Erik's home. She wanted a quick way to the streets and not to the sewers. The Persian said little as they made their way above, and she realized that he was likely only humoring her. Perhaps he thought she would change her mind before they started looking.

But he did not try to argue with her, flagging down one of the first carriages they saw. The streets of Paris faded into a white morning fog, the mist chilly against her face. Nadir negotiated with the man, who finally agreed on a healthy sum to part ways with his carriage for the day. He ushered her into the cab before climbing into the driver's seat himself.

She banged on the side to get his attention. "I need you to take me somewhere else first." When she gave him the address, he only nodded as though he was not shocked at the suggestion. A click of his tongue, and they lurched forward.

Christine knew this path. She had traveled it once before, watched between the curtains as the tall apartment buildings gave way to scrawling rustic-style residences. They passed through Le Marais until she saw the black slate tiles of the roof of the de Chagny estate.

Christine swallowed hard as Nadir pulled the carriage up to the front of the mansion. One of the main double doors swung open and a footman appeared, waiting. Nadir stepped down and nudged aside the curtain to speak to her.

"You are putting yourself in danger coming here," he said lowly. "I doubt they will let me come inside once they know who I am."

"You are not coming anyway," she replied with more bravery than she felt. "I need you to search every nearby police station and find Erik."

His face darkened. "I can't leave you here."

"Yet you will." She opened the door of the carriage herself and stepped out. The footman hurried down the broad stone steps to meet her. She did not spare the Persian another glance, gathering up her black skirts and raising her chin.

"Pardon me… mademoiselle?" the footman said. "No visitors are allowed at this time. The family is in mourning."

"They will see me," she said, striding past him. "Please tell them that Christine Daaé is here."

"Ah… yes, mademoiselle."

The lights were still dimmed inside the de Chagny mansion, the dark woods of the interior absorbing much of the daylight. Christine forced herself to appear relaxed, but her heart thudding wildly within her chest.

The footman murmured to an older gentleman who Christine recognized as the butler named Louis. She did not miss the look of disdain he gave her, and she returned it, remembering the part he had played when she had dined alone with Raoul.

"You must leave at once," he said, reaching out to take her by the arm.

She stepped to the side, further within the parlor. "Try to touch me again, and you will see the consequences of such insolence. I will not be bought nor pushed aside again." Seeing someone else enter the room behind Louis, she could not help the curling upward of her lips. "Ah, look. You may find such consequences are now on full display."

Philip balled his hands into fists. His nose and the surrounding tissue were a mottled, angry red and purple, with even darker bruises spreading outward below his eyes. She felt a not so small gleam of satisfaction at the sight.

"You dare invade my home," he growled at her. "Louis, send someone for the gendarmerie at once."

"Yes, please do," Christine said to the butler, who then hesitated. "If the Comte will not show me any hospitality, then I have no choice but to press charges for his assault of me last night."

"No one will believe you!"

"Won't they? In the very least, the papers would love to hear of your treatment of your late brother's fiancé" She gave a rueful laugh. "Raoul and I were never engaged, but since he already lied about that, who wouldn't believe me?"

Philip took a threatening step closer. "You harlot!"

" _Philip_!"

Christine heard the stern rebuke before she saw the older woman emerge from the top of the stairs. The Comtesse still looked to be in her prime despite having raised so many grown children. Even at this early hour, not a golden hair was out of place. Her ebony wrapper and shawl were so intricate that Christine's own mourning garb did hers a discourtesy.

As she descended the stairs, Christine saw where Raoul had inherited his bright blue eyes, and she felt a pang of regret that everything had ended for him the way it had. So much waste.

She bowed her head in greeting. "My apologies for barging into your home at this hour, madame."

"Who is this, Louis?" Raoul's mother asked, ignoring Christine.

"Mademoiselle Christine Daaé, madame."

The Comtesse's icy blues swept over Christine. Then she glanced at Philip. "That will be all, my dear."

Philip sputtered. "Mother, she-"

"Did you not hear me? Go and see what supplies we are lacking for tonight's memorial banquet. You as well, Louis. Now."

Philip all but seethed in anger, but he did as she requested. The butler bowed and followed.

Now that they were alone, the Comtesse leveled her gaze back upon Christine. "I have half a mind to throw you out at once."

"And the other half, madame?" Christine asked in a small voice.

"I want to hear what happened to my son from someone who was there."

"I would love the opportunity, madame."

They sat across from each other in the nearby drawing room. A different servant came in with tea, a gesture Christine knew was more about general propriety that being polite to her. She was grateful for the warmth that seeped into her hands and the sweetness that shook her awake. The Comtesse said nothing as they arranged their tea cups, clearly not wanting to engage in chatter.

Christine took a deep, steadying breath. This was what she had come here for, was it not? She had not known if Raoul's mother would be here, but she had little hope of convincing anyone else to leave her and Erik alone. Could this woman be trusted?

Christine did not have much time before Nadir returned to collect her. And if he had not found Erik, they would have to resume the search together. She must do what she could to make the Comtesse understand the truth about what had happened with Raoul.

And so Christine decided to tell the truth, to tell her almost everything.

"Shall I start at the beginning, madame?"

The Comtesse expertly pinched the handle of her cup between two fingers. "Is there any other way?"

True enough.

"I first met Raoul at a tavern in southern France," Christine began. "My father and I were traveling…"

* * *

Christine did her best not to stumble with sudden weariness as she made her way back to the carriage. Nadir's bearded face was lined with worry, and the empty cabin told her everything she needed to know about how unsuccessful he had been.

She caught a glimpse of the slowly-lifting fog and beams of sunshine threatening to cut through the clouds before she pulled the curtains closed so she did not have to view the passing mansions. The Comtesse had found every hole in Christine's story, had questioned every detail. There were some things that Christine simply could not tell the woman, details about Erik that were his alone to divulge.

However, she had not hidden the fact that a man had been chained in the basement of MASE. She had not shied away from telling Raoul's mother that her own son had done such a thing. But Christine's frankness seemed to get through to the older woman. And the healing cut on Christine's neck came so obviously from a knife…

In the end, Christine had begged for peace. She wanted nothing more from the de Chagny estate than to be left alone, and her refusal of any sort of payment for her troubles – and her silence – was the last act to convince the Comtesse of her innocence.

Even so, while she thought this might deter Philip from hacking his way into the Palais Garnier's hidden passages, she knew they were still compromised.

Now, she only needed to find Erik.

Once they were able to find a secluded street, Nadir pulled the horse up sharply and climbed into the carriage with her.

"I inquired at a half-dozen police houses," he said. "No one has seen a man matching Erik's description, not even close. If he has indeed gone to turn himself in, he did not choose anywhere nearby."

"To better prevent us from finding him."

"Likely so. However, I do wonder that no news is circulating of his capture. If he intended to reveal himself as the Strangler, as he told me he would, then no doubt that news would have been wired quickly all over Paris."

She clutched his hand. "Then where has he gone, Monsieur Khan?"

"Perhaps if we returned to the opera house, he would be there?" The hope was unmistakable in his voice.

"Perhaps you have not checked enough stations."

"I have already aroused enough suspicion! Several men already knew that I was let go of the Vicomte's case, and now I am asking around about his possible killer… Too much more, and they will truly sack me."

"Just a few more places," she begged.

His eyes swiveled to the sky – seeking patience or providence or both. "Two commissaires live along this route, but I am pushing my luck after that."

He climbed back to the front of the carriage and off they went again. Each time, Christine awaited him in the carriage, and each time, he came quickly back without a word to her. But he did not need to speak anymore. She knew he had not found Erik.

Far too soon, he pulled to a small alley once more and climbed beside her again, and she knew there would be no convincing him to press on.

Nadir leaned back in the seat, his head resting on the wall, and pressed finger and thumb into his eyes. Christine could have cried; it would not have taken much to allow the tears to take over her. Instead, she sat motionless as the man beside her lamented.

When he spoke again, his voice was wet, cracking on the first word. "Perhaps it is only a matter of time before he turns himself in. Perhaps he chose somewhere too far for me to reach him. I cannot help but feel as though I have failed him somehow. Yet again."

"Quite the opposite, I would think," she said quietly. "What if he has gone somewhere to think by himself first?"

The bakery around the corner from the Palais Garnier. The roof of the opera house itself. Or perhaps he had traveled all the way to see that Cesar would be well cared for. He could, at this very moment, be traveling beneath the very street on which they parked.

Where else would a Phantom go when he needed a space to be alone?

She sat up, eyes widening. "Monsieur Khan, back into the driver's seat with you."

The headquarters of MASE was not far away, and soon they had pulled up within the shadow of the tall stone building. Christine flinched when Nadir opened the carriage door for her exit, her ears ringing as though hearing the echo of a gunshot. She had never thought to return here. To pass it on the street would have been unthinkable. To enter those walls again stole the very breath from her.

She paused, gazing up at the shadows windows as though she might see a ghost standing within them.

Thinking of Erik, she found her courage. "Stay here," she bid Nadir.

His lips parted to protest, but he must have seen something in her face to make him acquiesce. "Any sort of noise, and I am there in an instant," he said.

"As I would expect, monsieur."

Her feet fell into slow stride alongside the building until she reached the side door that opened to a stairwell. Her heart gave a stirring of hope when she found the door already unlocked, and she pushed it open, using the waxing sunlight from outside to light up the corridor within long enough to see there was no sign of anyone. She had heard this branch of the company had been shut down since that night five men died.

Her life here now seemed but a dream from long ago, but it came back to her in a rush as she climbed the dark steps. She only ascended a single flight before leaving the staircase for the main floor of the building. Her feet followed the familiar path even though her eyes struggled to see the way; she had traveled this way in the dark of night, after all.

She opened the door, and her boots crunched on the path of the courtyard. Had she ever been here during the day? It seemed different now with beams of sun cutting through the lifting clouds. Less imposing. Less like the mystical location that had first stirred her soul awake again. Even though she understood that Raoul had first driven her here out of decent and manipulation, she would not have changed her discovery of the courtyard.

And certainly not of her discovery of the man chained nearby.

She spared the stone bench a glance, but instead she crossed the empty courtyard and entered the hallway beyond it. She had only gone this way once… when she had desperately sought help for her father.

The small door that led to what had been Erik's prison opened easily under her hand. The curtains were drawn tightly across the tiny window, but the sunlight from the door cast enough of a glow.

 _There._

Erik sat on the edge of the bare mattress, a lantern at his feet molding his masked face into deep shadow. His hands rested on his thighs, his back straight. He looked much the way he had the first time she had seen him – when she climbed through his window, when he sat so his height would not intimidate her.

Relief washed over Christine like a wave, and she wanted nothing more than to throw her arms around his neck. Instead, she closed the door behind her and stood with her back against it to steady herself.

"How long have you been here?" she asked.

"Much of the morning." His long fingers shifted minutely upon his legs as though he wanted to lift them and thought better of it. "I keep trying to force my feet to move again. I did pass by one station house, but the coward in me kept walking."

 _Oh Erik_. She pulled the letter from her bodice. "I did not read this yet. I suppose if you still intend to give yourself over to them, I will not be able to stop you." She bent down and opened the little door of the lantern. Holding the edge of the letter to the flame, she waited until the paper had caught fire. Then she tossed it into the empty hearth in the room, waiting a moment as the parchment curled and darkened.

She turned back to Erik. "Goodbyes are best said face-to-face, are they not?"

"Oh, little bird," he moaned, hands turning to claws upon his thighs. "I wish nothing more than to put all of my past actions behind me and look to the future. If I could pursue any other avenue, I would do so."

She sat beside him on the mattress, pulled off her gloves, and took one of his hands, resting it palm up on her lap. She smoothed the cool flesh with her thumbs, stared down at the scars upon his wrist that peeked above his white cuff.

"I spoke with Raoul's mother today."

He jerked at that, almost wrenching his hand from her. "Gods below, Christine, why would you do such a thing?"

"A not so small part of me wanted to witness her learn the truth about her son with my own eyes. I am not certain how much she believed me, but at least I told her. I… think the encounter helped me finally understand how little any of us truly knew him and the reasons he did what he did." She swept her thumb over the edge of one of his scars.

Erik contemplated her words for a moment. "Your strength can still astound me, little bird. You risked much by going there alone."

"I didn't go alone – Nadir came with me. He is waiting for us outside."

He blew a rueful laugh behind his mask. "Of course he is."

"You are much loved, Erik," she said, entwining her fingers with his. Her hand was consumed by the wide span of his palm. "He loves you more than a friend loves a friend, maybe more than a father loves his son. He called you his brother. We would both follow you as long as you allowed us to."

"That is where you are mistaken, dear one. It is I who would gladly follow you. Perhaps you have not noticed, but I have strived to do so since the moment we met. There… was a time when I thought I might die in this room. The moment I heard your voice beyond that window, I felt the first stirrings of hope."

"Hope?"

When she said the word aloud, she realized the concept had once been as foreign to her as it had been to him. She had thought she felt hope once, when Raoul had given her father his job here. Hope meant they might finally have a way to pull themselves out of the poverty that had kept them running from the past.

Meeting Erik… yes, she had felt true hope then too.

"I know now that he drew Papa and I here with the purpose of my father eventually dying." It was a truth she had held deep within her for weeks; speaking it aloud gave a finality to her time here that she had been seeking. She amazed herself at being able to speak that truth without weeping. "He wanted me to rush into his arms for support afterward."

Erik's hand spasmed around hers. "As you ran into mine."

Her eyes widened. Truly, he did not believe that she only wanted to be with him because she had no option? "Erik, if you think-"

"No, I do not," he said, bringing their interlaced hands into his own lap. He clutched her hand to him, and she could feel the rapid pulse of his heart in his wrist. "For some strange reason, you have decided to give your heart to me. And I intend to keep it."

A startled little gasp passed her parted lips as he slipped from the mattress onto his knees before her. His free hand came up and removed his mask, setting it onto the bed. The last little flickers of burning parchment sparked in the hearth and winked out. When he lifted his golden eyes to hers, she saw her future within them.

"I am a coward, Christine," he said upon shaky breaths. "I am a cowardly man who cannot choose to pay for his crimes when he has experienced a taste of what life might have to offer him. I cannot pretend that I deserve such a thing, but I have it in my grasp nonetheless."

She opened her mouth to argue that much of his actions were not of his own accord, and certainly he was _deserving_ , but he pressed onward. She had to hear him in full, and if she cut him off, she feared he might truly lose his nerve.

He shook his head against his own thoughts. "I have long searched for a place to call my own. I have traveled across the globe and never experienced anything that I thought resembled such a feeling. However, I have realized this is not to be found in a city or any other such place but rather, it exists somewhere in the space between you and I. _You_ are home, Christine."

He ran his thumbs over her knuckles, and she shivered at the sensation. "I cannot promise an easy life with me," he continued, now more earnestly. "I cannot promise we can stay in Paris or that we will always be able to settle somewhere for long." His thin lips quirked at the corners, an expression she longed to see for the rest of her life. "I cannot even promise that our papers can be legally signed."

She shared his amusement at that. As if she needed a slip of paper to acknowledge what was already in her heart!

Erik's eyes darkened into seriousness. "I can, however, promise to share my future with you in every way. I can promise to provide for you whenever that is within my power. I can promise to adore you, to love you, to always strive toward your happiness. I can promise to share your sorrows and your joys, and to share… myself. If you will have me, Christine. Would you – would you become my wife?"

Christine gazed at the man kneeling before her. How far they had both come, and how easy it was to say the word:

"Yes."


	27. Home

**This chapter is rated a hard M for Mature. It's the chapter we all deserve, hmm?**

* * *

 **Chapter 27: Home**

Christine awoke alone in her own bedroom. As she knew she would.

Two weeks had passed since that moment in the basement of MASE. She could not remember a time when she had risen eager to see what the day would bring, a morning that had brought not a morsel of regret. This morning, anticipatory energy filled her body, stirring her awake quickly and launching her from her bed.

On her bureau, she found a note along with a single stemmed rose and a petite blue glass bottle. Smiling, she picked up the rose and touched her lips to the soft petals.

The note read: _Take your time today, my beloved. I hope this gift brings you joy in its memories. Four other gifts await you. See if you can find them. -E_

As soon as she uncapped the bottle, she knew what it was. The scent of crisp orange and daffodils wafted up to her nose, and she inhaled the cherished scent. For a moment, she despaired of the truth that she had not a mother nor a father to give away her hand today. However, she knew within her heart that they were present around her, and their memories gave her strength to push onward.

She ran a hot bath and soaked for a long time. After toweling off, she dabbed a bit of the perfume under her ears and upon her wrists, pulled on her wrapper, and set off in search of breakfast.

Another treat awaited her upon the table: another rose paired with a second card were set before a plate of her favorite _pain au chocolat_. They were still warm, and she happily sank her teeth into one as she read the second note.

 _Sweets for my sweet. A gift to bring you contentment. – E_

Christine ate two of the rolls and drank her coffee, but soon she was back on the hunt. His first note had said there were five total gifts, and she was determined to track them down.

In the sitting room, she found another rose lying next to two framed photographs of her family. One was the photograph from her father's trunk. The other was the very one she had kept beside her bed at the MASE apartment. She had no idea how Erik had come by it, but seeing it again brought tears to her eyes.

 _A gift to bring you comfort_ , the note read.

She did not have to go far to find the next gift: a box tied with ribbon upon the piano bench. She knew without looking what was within the box; the two rings that had once belonged to her parents had been polished and restored to their original golden brilliance. The two bands were simple, a testament to the humble life her parents had led, but their history and Erik's acceptance of them made them more precious than any jewels he could have given her.

The card resting near them read, _May these bring you love – past, present, and future._

She brushed aside her tears and carried the rings to her room, setting them atop her mourning garb lest she forget them. Then she went in search of the final gift.

This one took her a while to find, and finally, she went into Erik's bedroom. They had slept apart since that last night they spent together, when they had shared touches in the dark that still made her bloom with warmth whenever she thought about them. Despite the lack of legality in what they were doing today… Erik had insisted they share some type of decorum.

Christine did understand. But these nights apart had made her long for him even more so.

Upon his bed, she found the last card with its paired rose. _A gift of myself_ , it read. _You give me the strength._

Erik's black mask rested on the bed.

She picked it up, the weight of it now familiar to her. If Erik's mask was here, then what was he wearing? She glanced around the empty room as though it might give her answers, but she had found all five of his gifts. No doubt this mystery would become clear when she saw him later.

Leaving the mask, she gathered up the five roses and placed them in a vase before heading back to her bedroom to dress. She pulled on her usual mourning garb but left her hair long and loose, knowing she would want to redo her pins later anyway.

The day passed far too slowly. She tried to occupy her mind with reading until a knock sounded on the door.

The Persian smiled warmly and stretched out a hand to greet her. She embraced him instead, hearing his puff of laughter as he returned the hug.

"Ready, my dear?" Nadir asked.

"Are you?" she teased.

He shook his head. "Truthfully, I never thought I would see a day like today." He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. "I have become too sentimental in my old age! Let us be off before Madame Giry has my head."

She fetched the rings and gave them to Nadir, who tucked them securely into his coat pocket. Her stomach fluttered, much as it had all day, but there was no hesitation in her steps as she made her way up the cellars of the Palais Garnier. Madame Giry greeted her with dry kisses upon both of her cheeks, and then the trio was off. Cesar tossed his head, demanding that Christine give him a pet, and she gladly did so for the brief distraction. The Persian drove the carriage.

"Nervous, are you?" Madame Giry asked, nodding at the way Christine twisted her fingers in her lap.

"Isn't every woman nervous on such a day?"

"I suppose I was," Giry said wistfully. "I was barely eighteen, and I hadn't seen him in three months. Our first kiss was on our wedding night."

"How long were you married?"

"Six of the best years of my life. Meg was only just a baby. It took us so long to have her that we had almost given up hope of ever conceiving a child."

Christine looked at her. She had never seen the woman wear anything but black. "You never remarried?"

"I considered it." Madame Giry gave a shrug of sharp shoulders. "I soon fell into my work upon the stage, and I suppose you could say I became married to ballet instead. I never stopped mourning him." She smiled thinly. "A grim subject for such a day, is it not? Come now – you must have questions."

"About, madame?" She had a sudden urge to turn formal with the woman she now considered a friend.

The look Madame Giry gave her made her face blush. "There are some things that should be spoken of between mother and daughter. However, I managed this conversation with Meg, and I suppose I can have it now with you."

"O-Oh?"

"I may be old, dear girl, but a woman never forgets her wedding night."

* * *

By the time they pulled up to the dressmaker, Christina was certain that her cheeks were as red as the roses Erik had given her. If he noticed, Nadir made no comment as he helped the two of them from the carriage. He stated he would return in an hour before leaving with a tip of his hat.

At first, Christine had insisted that she needed no special attire for today. She was still in mourning, after all, and being gifted a new gown stirred up unpleasant memories for her. Still, Erik's eyes had blazed with a heat that at once had made her reconsider. This was _his_ moment too, and if she could bring him such pleasure by dressing differently, she would do so.

Choosing the fabrics and styles with the Girys had been rather enjoyable, if not a bit tinged with longing for her own mother's presence. At least she had a say over the appearance of this gown, a notion that had never truly been given to her before.

Now, she went to finally put it on.

A dress measured upon her body, fit piece by piece, adjusted to detailed precision – the result was a gown in layers of ivory and champagne that fit her perfectly. The bodice cut across the beginning swells of her breasts and continued across her upper arms, leaving her collar and shoulders bare. Flowers detailed one shoulder and down from one hip, but otherwise, she had left the cut and draping of the silk to give any design.

Christine gazed at the full-length mirror. The gown accentuated every curve of her body. Draping at her hips swept into the bustle behind her, and waves of silk fabric splashed into a short train. Her undergarments were silk as well – an ivory corset with no shift underneath. Pantaloons were more lace and ruffle than proper drawers. Silk white stockings were tied upon her thighs with bows.

It was all so scandalous, a move that she knew would please Erik. She would wear this gown only once anyway, and only a handful of people would see her within it.

After dressing, Madame Giry helped her arrange her hair. Her curls were swept from her face and arrange atop her head save the back, which she left to fall in dark brown coils. The veil attached at her crown was short and translucent. Her face she left bare save a little tinted beeswax to add a redness to her lips. She was certain she needed nothing on her cheeks but her own ever-present blushing.

By the time they finished, darkness had settled outside, and the street laps were flickering. Nadir strode in with a tinkle of the door chime.

"My dear, you are stunning!"

Christine blushed all the harder. "Thank you, monsieur. Is it time yet?"

"Indeed."

Madame Giry embraced her at the door of the carriage. She would find her own way back as only Nadir and Christine would continue on from here. Soon, Christine was left alone in the cabin, her gown a massive sea of silk flowing around her, her cloak preventing a chill from creeping across her bare arms and shoulders. She carried no lantern, but sometimes the glow from a streetlight would cast a beam across the curtain, causing her gown to blaze with luminosity.

Christine focused on keeping her breathing even, encased as she was in darkness and silk. The drive to the church seemed to last hours when she knew it was not far. When the carriage began to slow, she happened a look outside. Nadir pulled them beyond the high gate that surrounded the courtyard of the church, and her breath began to quicken.

Cesar blew out cold wisps of air as they drew up beside the church. Nadir stepped down and offered her a hand, and with his help, she made her way into one of the small doors. Immediately, she was greeted with the curling notes of a pipe organ, which welcomed her as she followed him up a steep stairway.

When she reached the top, Nadir took her cloak and stepped away. A balcony opened before her, and beyond it, the open, candlelight nave of the church. The pipe organ swept over her unencumbered here, but she had little time to take in the high ceiling, the cream-colored stone walls, the giant chandelier hanging from the center.

Erik stood before her.

He wore no cloak or hat, and his black-encased figure was a shadow cutting across the low light. He had traded out his usual black waistcoat for one made of ivory silk embroidered with golden thread. His wig was smoothed back, not a hair out of place.

And he wore a different black mask, one that ended at his upper lip and curved around his mouth. He was smiling, his lips curling at the edges. That smile widened at the sight of her. His eyes darkened behind his mask.

"My sweet dove," he said, voice sliding over her skin, "you are a vision no matter what you wear, but tonight, you are an angel standing before me."

He extended a long-fingered hand, and she came closer to take it. Despite his straight back and loose stance, his fingers trembled in hers. Was he as nervous as she was?

With her other hand, she reached up and cupped his masked cheek. This new mask was more elaborate than his old one, the fabric silken to the touch with black embroidery scattered across. She recalled Nadir Khan once mentioning the fact that Erik was wearing a full mask. If he had now traded it back for this one…

"I like this," she said softly. "Although I much prefer your own face, this is quite the improvement."

"Time to put the past behind us, is it not?" he said, and she was thrilled to feel the breath leave his lips, to hear his voice unencumbered. "Time to focus on where our future takes us."

"Where it takes us together."

He took her hand and pressed her knuckles to his lips. "Together, indeed."

Nadir cleared his throat. "Shall we begin? I'm afraid I know little of how these things work in the west, but I will do my best."

"I hardly care about the ceremony of it," Christine said, gazing up at Erik. And truly, she did not. She knew the papers she would sign today were crafted in forgery. She knew the measures Erik and Nadir had both taken to bring them to this point. What mattered to her was that – in her heart and in his – she was marrying the man she loved.

She was getting married before God. And that itself would bind her to Erik forevermore.

"Come now, Daroga," Erik said, his eyes locked upon hers.

"We are gathered here today," Nadir began, "to witness the joining in marriage of this man and this woman. Fate has brought them together, but their love for each other has held them fast, and it is that love that we now celebrate." He looked at Erik. "Erik, do you take this woman as your wife and pledge to be faithful to her in all things as a man should be faithful to his wife?"

"I do," Erik said breathlessly.

"Christine, do you take this man as your husband and pledge to be faithful to him in all things as a woman should be faithful to her husband?"

She had no hesitation: "I do."

Nadir fetched one of the rings from his pocket and handed it to Erik. "Repeat after me, please."

Christine felt Erik's gentle touch as he placed her mother's ring at the tip of her finger. His words were spoken with the utmost sincerity, and she let them wash over her with all the promise they contained. When he slid the simple golden band onto her finger, she felt something settle over her – a peace she had not felt for much of her life.

She blinked, noticing Nadir now holding another ring out for her to take, and tears squeezed out of the corners of her eyes, easing down her cheeks. She gave Erik a reassuring smile and took his hand like he had hers.

"With this ring," she said, repeating Nadir's words, "I promise to honor you and cherish you until we are parted in death. This I do vow before man and before God."

Her father's ring slid onto his finger as though it had always belonged there.

Nadir blew out a breath that he must have been holding. "I now declare you husband and wife! You may kiss your bride."

Cupping her hands between his, Erik drew her closer, bent, and pressed a light kiss upon her lips. It was at once both the perfect end to their ceremony and a small morsel that left her aching for more.

"Sign these for me," Nadir said, "and I will ensure they make it into the proper records." He handed them each a pen, and they quickly scribbled their names onto the document. "And that is that."

That was that.

She felt Erik thumbing away the tears coursing down her cheeks. She struggled to reassure him, but her throat cramped in a sudden release of emotion.

His mouth was a thin line of worry. "Let us depart," he said, giving her his elbow. She did not miss that the two men exchanged a glance, and she felt like such a fool for causing him distress on such a happy occasion.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. For a few seconds, she allowed herself to absorb the final moment here. The music swelled in the vast space of the church. Her dress was a heavy, comforting weight around her. Erik's bicep flexed under her hand. She tried to memorize every detail as they made their way down the stairs, side by side, husband and wife.

Within the carriage, as Erik climbed in after her, she finally felt her throat loosen.

"I am happy, Erik," she managed to say. "So happy. Perhaps a little overwhelmed, I think."

"If you have any qualms at all-"

Her palm covered his mouth at once. This new mask had its advantages. "I don't! I am your wife, my love, and I have never been more thrilled." She gave a heady little laugh. "I am your _wife._ "

His lips pursed under her hand, kissing the sensitive skin there. She watched, rapt, as one of his hands, glowing white in the dim light, encircled her forearm. Instead of removing her hand, he merely lifted her arm so that his lips could ghost along the thin skin of her wrist. Following the line of her arm, he pressed a kiss to her inner arm, to the crease of her elbow, to her bare shoulder.

Gods, yes, his mask had its advantages. His lips traveled to her collarbone.

"Kiss me, please," she managed to gasp.

He obliged, finding her lips with his own. This kiss was not the chaste peck from earlier. He slanted his mouth over hers, claiming her lips with a growl that made her press herself against him and kiss all the harder. How he could stir her body awake with a mere kiss!

A rap on the door made them separate, panting. "Quickly now," Nadir said, "while the street is clear."

Christine squeezed the Persian's hand as he helped her from the carriage, and soon, it was only two of them ducking into the side entrance of the Palais Garnier. Once inside, Erik found the hidden panel and the lantern he had hidden there, and they were within the walls once again. The passages that ran deep underground were now as familiar as those above. Christine focused on the surety of this man's hand around hers, this man was now her husband in every way that mattered.

Well, almost every way.

They entered the small home nestled within the cave. Erik busied himself with rousing fires in the hearths while she smoothed her voluminous skirts, unwanted nervousness stirring in her belly. As Erik headed to his bedroom to stoke the fire there, she stayed in the sitting room, unsure what she should do.

When the first sweet notes met her ears, she thought perhaps she was hearing something that did not exist. Her heart pounded in her chest, but the piercing clarity of the violin overrode her tenseness. She followed the silky sound, allowing it to pull her down the hallway, drawn by each note as though following a fated string.

Erik stood in the middle of his bedroom. His elbows jutted to either side, his long, lean body swayed with each tone, his head tilted upon the chin rest. His fingers danced along the neck of the violin as he expertly wove the bow back and forth. Golden eyes alighted on her when she entered the room.

She had known the moment she heard the music. He was playing Papa's violin.

She sagged against the bedpost. Once upon a time, she had heard this instrument play every day, and when it had vanished from her life, she had lost a piece of herself with it. Now, Erik had brought her father to life again and given Christine's past new meaning. Something within her smoothed over and finally healed.

Erik played and played. He began with the first song Christine had ever sung for him, the one that had caused him to murmur a "Brava" into the night. One after another, he spun melodies for her – songs she had first given to him, songs from her home country, bits of music she knew he had composed himself.

When he paused, she rushed to him. "You restored his violin," she said, a sob of joy breaking up her words. "I had no idea you could play."

She realized there was much she did not know about him, much to discover, but now was not the time for such thoughts. He had peeled open her heart and restored her soul and she wanted nothing more at that moment than to be in his arms.

Carefully, she took the violin from him and held its familiar weight, breathed in the scent of the wood and oil. Then she placed violin and bow on the armchair and turned back to the man standing before her.

His eyes skittered back and forth between each of hers as though searching for an answer to a question. She stepped closer and put her arms around his trim waist, felt his own expansive hands come up to pull her against him. His heart skittered wildly beneath her ear, and he pressed his lips to the crown of her head.

"I can scarcely believe this is real," he said.

"Which part?" she asked, giving a soft laugh.

His arms spasmed around her, and she encouraged him to hug her tighter still. "The feeling of you in my arms, dearest one, is an indescribable pleasure."

"One you may have every day for the rest of our lives." She separated only enough to look up at him, and he bent down, obliging her unspoken request for a kiss.

But he pulled back too soon, holding her at arm's length. "We do not have to move beyond this, little bird. I can be content with you in my arms, with the kisses you bestow upon me. That alone is far more than I ever dreamed I could have."

They had already gone far beyond such things, had they not? When she pledged to marry him, she had meant in all ways that a woman became a wife.

Her hands flitted to the hidden fasteners of her bodice. "I am your wife," she said as she began to undo them one by one. "And you are my husband. And while I would never press you beyond your comfort, and I can be patient to wait if you wish, I want you." Her bodice fell away, revealing her bone-white corset. The low curve of the bust made it obvious that she wore nothing underneath.

His eyes burned a path over her, and with a low growl, he stepped forward again and set his lips to her bare shoulder. She felt teeth scrape against her collarbone, and she fisted either side of his jacket, encouraging his pursuit of her skin.

"Always so soft," he murmured, his breath hot. "I need more of you, my Christine."

"I am yours. Do as you wish with me."

Those golden eyes shot up, hot as the fire embers behind him. For a moment, she thought to amend her statement, but then his mouth was upon the curve of her neck and she lost all coherency. One of his hands cupped the dip of her waist and dragged her against him while the other began to tug at the ties of her skirts. His sudden fervor made her gasp in delight. He soon had her outer skirt free, and the meters of silky champagne-colored fabric puddled to the floor around her. Her cage bustle was tossed away, and her lace-trimmed underskirt soon followed.

She found herself scooped into his arms and set in the middle of the bed, the blankets of which had already been turned down.

"Stop me, little bird, if you so desire it," he said, his long fingers delving into the lacy cuff of her drawers, his cool touch skimming just above her knee.

"I desire _you_ ," she replied.

He drew in a sharp breath at that, surged upward to crash his mouth against hers. His tongue lashed across hers, leaving her breathless as he just as quickly slid back down the length of her body. Deft fingers found the silky ties holding up each of her stockings. One by one, he rolled each down, revealing the smooth creaminess of her skin. With each patch of her revealed, he greeted with presses of his lips and caresses of his fingertips until both of her legs were bare.

She felt a little giddy, a little weightless, as she rolled onto her stomach and presented the crisscrossing ties of her corset to him. Even in the warmth of the fire, she was starting to chill, her bare toes digging into the mattress in anticipation. The backs of his fingers swept her hair aside, making her shiver, and then he began to tug at the laces.

Cool lips kissed down her back as the corset parted, the halves separating to either side of her. And then she was bare save her drawers.

"You are so lovely," he whispered. His palm flattened against her back and swept downward, setting her skin aflame. He did not pause, meeting the waistband of her drawers and continuing, cupping her backside with forceful possessiveness before dipping lower still.

She brought one of her knuckles up to clench between her teeth as his fingers delved between her legs, seeking the pooling heat there. "Ah, Erik!" she gasped. His fingers skimmed her folds and even she could tell how quickly she drenched his agile digits, how easily he was able to pass back and forth over her sensitive skin.

Feeling exposed, she rolled onto her side to face him, needing to see him, and he withdrew his fingers. She caught his sleeve lest he try to draw away completely.

"Kiss me?" she asked.

He responded immediately, shifting upon his knees to bend over her. Damp fingers found one of her nipples and tugged gently as they kissed, and he eagerly drank down her moan. His hands soon were everywhere – finding the peaks of her breasts, cupping the weight of them, trailing down her ribcage to find the parting in her drawers again. The tightness within her built, her body thrumming with desire for him, but touches were not enough.

She wanted him. Wanted him entirely.

Her hands lifted and made the move to push his jacket from his angular shoulders.

Erik pulled back, eyes a little wild, pupils blown. "Forgive me. I have taken advantage."

She merely smiled at him. "I would hardly call it that, Erik. I told you I would have patience, and I shall, but I wish to see you as you have seen me. May I?"

"I… This body…" He swallowed, throat bobbing under his mask, thin lips parting. "This body has not been treated kindly."

"I know, my love," she said, rising on her knees to cup his masked cheeks. "Right here, in this room now, there is only you and me. I trust you with everything that I am, and when you are ready, I wish for you to trust me."

His own hands covered hers, then brought them down to rest at the necktie at his throat. "I do."

Kissing the underside of his jaw, she undid the necktie. Then she pushed his jacket off his shoulders until it fell to the floor beside the bed. She continued to press kisses to his jaw, to his neck, as she unbuttoned his waistcoat and then his shirt, beginning at his throat. She chased each patch of revealed skin with her lips until she reached his heaving belly.

Erik wrenched himself off the bed. Christine went to protest, to call him back, but she held her tongue as he snapped his shirt the rest of the way off and shoved the cuffs off his wrists. He toed off his black shoes and peeled off his socks, revealing white angular feet. Then he unbuttoned the front of his trousers and slid them from narrow hips.

The moment was too much for her. She tore her gaze from him and focused instead on shimmying off her own last undergarment and pulling the blankets to her chest. She hoped the comfort of being covered would calm her sudden trembling.

A warmed hand touched her cheek. "Christine? We can stop here."

She shook her head and then peeked at him again. He had removed both wig and mask, and he kneeled beside the bed. She knew he was completely naked before her, exposed in more ways than one, but the look in his eyes was only concern. For her.

She took his hand and tugged, scooting over to make room for him to join her beneath the covers. His eyebrows swept together in relief. He was warmer than she expected, his skin delicious against hers. He kept his hips angled away from her, but his arms pulled her torso close, his kiss pressing her into the mattress as he eased some of his weight onto her.

The feeling of his body atop hers took her breath away. She hoped he would allow her to hold him as he held her. Her hands crept up his arms, feeling the strength in the lean muscles there. She mapped the length of his shoulders and felt the beginning raised slants of scars upon his upper back.

"You are shaking, beloved," he said, brushing curls from her forehead.

"I am a bit frightened," she admitted.

His eyes widened. "Of me?"

"No, of course not." She took a steadying breath. "This is all so… strange. I feel very exposed, but it is not bad, Erik, just new. I don't want to stop."

He flattened her palm against the smooth skin of his chest. His heartbeat thumped wildly under her hand. "You are not the only one afraid."

"Then hold me? Kiss me?"

He did so, winding his arms around her, fingers playing with the tips of her hair and tangling within the strands at her nape. His weight settled more atop her, his belly nearly against hers. He was warm, so much more incredibly warm, than he had ever been before. She could feel the hardness of him against her thigh, that part of him she had held in her hand weeks ago. She remembered the sizeable girth of him and wondered how he would ever fit inside her.

One of his hands caressed down her side to toy with the curls between her legs.

"Open for me, Christine?"

She moved aside her leg, her breath panting against his lips. His teeth scraped along her bottom lip, distracting her as his fingers once again settled between her thighs. She was even slicker now, becoming ready for him, and he sank one finger within her with ease. Squirming with spiking pleasure, she passed her hands over his skin, needing to feel him, to know him. He added a second finger, a tighter fit, but the discomfort did not bleed into pain. For a while, she relished the feeling of his long digits pulsing in and out of her core, and she whimpered when he finally removed them.

"Oh, my love," he whispered. He shifted, and the points of his hipbones began to dig into her thighs. She widened her legs for him, gave him room to settle against her, her thighs spreading to accommodate him.

He did nothing more than that, not yet, distracting her with long, languid kisses, his fingers combing through her hair. She could feel the heavy throb of his manhood resting against her sex. Rocking lightly against her, he pressed words of love into her neck and suckled lightly at her pulse point. When she could take no more waiting, she reached down and gripped his hips, urging him onward.

He took himself in hand and guided himself to her entrance. At first, she concentrated on the warmth and slickness of his skin as her folds were parted. She felt spread open, and she fought to stay relaxed as he rained kisses upon her face and neck. His hips pressed more upon the backs of her thighs and his back arched. He slid deeper within her and that was when she felt the first throb of pain. Steadily, he continued. She threw her arms around his back, ran her palms down the ridges of scar tissue she found there, and he shuddered above her.

"Breathe, Christine," he murmured in her ear. "My love, oh my dearest one."

A surge of his hips, and she cried out then in pain. "Erik!" She clutched him to her, knew her nails likely bit into his shoulders. Even though she had known what was coming, nothing could have helped her comprehend what this would be like. It was pain mixed with liberation, a feeling both terrifying and streaked with a heady sense of womanly power.

For a while, Erik hovered there, unmoving, seated deep within her. She could feel the pulse of him within her, and when he flexed his hips, she cried out a different sort of sound – not one of pain. She still ached, but the sharpness was gone, replaced now with the first stirrings of possibility. She swept her hands over his back and down the trim set of his waist before finding the rise of his buttocks.

Her brazen touches seemed to embolden him. He canted his hips back, sliding out of her slightly, the feeling of his skin dragging slickly on her skin entrancing her. Then he thrust within her again, a quicker glide with less pain that made her sob out of his name once more.

A tremor suddenly rippled up his spine. He jerked against her once, twice more, before seating himself deep, her thighs spread wide around him. He fell heavily onto her, his breath panting in her ear. Confused, she merely caressed his sides until he roused himself, easing himself from her, causing her to wince despite his gentleness. She could feel a new sort of wetness left behind and knew it had come from him.

He pulled the blankets up over them both and settled on his side next to her. "I am so sorry," he said at length. "I have never… before you, I have never… And you are so very pretty and soft, and the way you felt around me…"

His ears tinged pink. He was… embarrassed?

She tried to think of the right words. "You stopped so quickly. That… is not the way of such things?"

"Not usually, no." He frowned. "I took from you without giving anything in return. You took no pleasure from that act."

"I did like it," she said, trying to reassure him. "It felt differently than it did with your fingers, but I think for our first time, we did quite well, don't you think?"

He ran a hand down his face. "What kind of husband would I be to leave you unsatisfied?"

"Erik-"

But he was already silencing her with lips and tongue, hands finding her breasts and cupping their heaviness. His thumbs smoothed over the peaks, and before long, she was arching beneath him again. She liked his rapt attention, and he was a quick learner, ascertaining each way she enjoyed being touched.

But when his fingers tried to delve between her legs again, she winced, and he withdrew at once.

"I am sorry," she said, flushing. "I did not realize how difficult the first time would be."

He kissed her temple. "You have nothing to apologize for. Perhaps… there is another method?"

She arched a brow at him, unsure what he meant, then stared as he began to press soft, damp kisses down the length of her body. When his mouth enveloped one of her nipples, she gasped as new heat flooded through her. His teeth scraped against her sensitive skin, and all too soon he had moved on to the ridges of her ribs and lower still to the curve of her belly.

When he pressed a kiss to the inside of one thigh, she rose upon her elbows. The sight of him stretched between her legs, the muscles in his shoulders flexing, made her burn in more ways than one.

"E-Erik?"

"Trust me?"

His breath fanned hotly between her thighs. When she nodded and laid back down, he kissed the inner curve of each of her thighs. And then she felt it – the touch of his tongue, unmistakable in its slickness and warmth, upon the outer folds of her sex.

She grasped the sheets to either side of her and tossed her head back. His tongue swiped with utmost gentleness against her tender tissues, his breath curling with damp warmth, and she could no more control herself. This felt… this felt beyond anything she had felt before. A molten force that had her opening her thighs further for him. His tongue lapped deeper still, forceful in pursuit of her pleasure. Her body trembled.

His tongue dipped within her, and she came undone, spasming against him, her toes curling.

Once she had settled, he crawled up the length of her body and settled beside her again. She felt rather than heard his low, satisfied chuckle as he tucked his face into her neck. Her hand halfheartedly slapped his shoulder, which made him shake harder with laughter.

"I do not know who is more satisfied," she said, "you or me."

"That is something I will not debate with you, little bird," he said against her neck. She shivered at the feeling of his breath tickling her skin. She would never grow tired of that endearment, nor of that feeling.

His arm came up around her, solid and claiming. She entwined her fingers with his and caressed the golden band that now resided there. There was much still to determine, the details of their lives together that might never be sorted into neat little containers.

"Rest easy, my love" he urged her, lips pressing into the hollow of her neck and shoulder. "I will be here when you wake."

She drifted into sleep, the warmth of him behind her, his steady heartbeat at her back, his slow breathing stirring the tendrils of her hair.

He would be there when she woke.

* * *

 **An epilogue to follow...**


	28. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Her body still languid and in the last throes of sleep, Christine cracked open her eyes. She lay on her side, her limbs curled lightly, one hand tucked under her pillow, the back of her other hand resting against the arm of the man next to her. His chest rose and fell steadily, the blanket pulled midway across the hard panes of his torso. His bare face was turned slightly toward her, his lips relaxed and parted. Dark eyelashes curved across his sharp cheekbones.

Erik was still asleep.

And he was exquisite in the firelight, the shadows of the spitting flames falling across his lengthy form. He was all long limbs and unyielding muscle, all smooth skin contrasted with callouses and scars, all bony joints softened with liquid movement. She had mapped him as he had done to her in the weeks that followed their wedding. She knew every stripe across his back, every healed wound that dotted his body. She knew that he did not enjoy her fingernails in his back when she was in the midst of passion, but grazing or nipping teeth could make him gasp with pleasure.

For a while, she contented herself with watching him sleep.

The clock in the sitting room chimed faintly down the hall. The hour was early, but too soon they would have to be dressed in the clothing they left laid out for them. Nadir would not want to leave the stagecoach to fetch them.

Christine let her hand creep from his arm to rest upon his chest. She was so warm beneath these blankets, nestled up against him, and he had benefited from their lack of clothing. Her skin had warmed his, and he was still so warm now that she could not resist.

When he did not stir, she felt a pang of regret that she had to wake him from such a deep sleep. Her husband so rarely rested, after all. Perhaps she could at least do so in a pleasant manner? Gathering her courage – and not without a little mischievousness – she let her hand slip lower.

Her fingertips met the dusting of hair that began just below his bellybutton. He must truly have been exhausted to fall asleep nude as he had, not that she had spent the energy putting on her chemise or drawers. Erik had so little hair upon his body that this light trail fascinated her. She followed it down the slight softness of his stomach until the sparse hair fanned across the dip of his pelvis. Ever so slightly, she quested forward until her fingertips ghosted along the hot length of him lying angled across his hip.

Here, she hesitated. Had she yet to be so forward with him? She offered herself up often enough, but to claim her ability to touch him while he slept unaware…

"Wife."

The throaty murmur made her freeze. A golden eye slit open and alighted upon her, and her face blazed hotly. She had been caught, and she could see no easy way to maneuver out of her indiscretion.

"Is there something you need, wife?"

She wet her lips, watched as that single eye zeroed in on the movement. "Forgive me – I only wanted to touch you."

"There is nothing to forgive," he said, voice still raspy in sleep. "I am yours as you are mine."

One of his hands came up to cover hers. She gave a soft gasp as, instead of moving her hand away, he slid her lower still. He quickly stirred, growing in length and girth against her palm.

"May I touch you in return?" he asked. When she nodded, he rolled more toward her, which caused him to extend even more so into her hand. She delighted in the permission to explore him more thoroughly, and she took the opportunity to run her fingers across him, marveling at the way the skin slid over hardness and the sudden appearance of moisture at the tip.

"Ah, my dove," he murmured. He turned his face into her neck, a move that hid her view of his bare face. She might have mentioned this to him, but his lips sought the skin of her throat, and so she did not mind so much. His thin lips nipped at her sensitive flesh while his hand quested down her ribcage to cup between her legs.

She was still swollen and sensitive from his attention last night, but he was gentle, his touch light until wetness slicked his way. Her cheeks burned at the thought that he was likely touching much more than only _her_ wetness, but rather the mingled remnants of their lovemaking.

As much as she loved how he could drive her to completeness with his fingers, this morning, she craved _him_ more than anything. She grasped his shoulder and pulled him toward her.

"Please, Erik. I… I want…" She struggled to speak frankly about such a thing. Even after all they had shared, she could feel embarrassment over her own forwardness.

He pulled up to look at her, eyes glittering but brows drawn together with concern. "I do not wish to hurt you, and I fear I may so soon after we last came together."

"I-I know." She glanced away from the intensity in his gaze. "But it may be quite some time before we have privacy again, and I wanted so badly- ahh!" He had bent and taken one of her nipples into his mouth, the hot suction flushing her with warmth, teeth scratching deliciously.

He let go of her with a soft plop. "I can deny you nothing, little dove, least of all myself."

Her heart fluttered. He moved atop her, one of his knees batting apart her thighs. It was a quick, possessive move that made her breath catch in her throat, her blood quicken in her veins. He settled against her, positioned himself, and slid within in one achingly-slow glide. She thought she might never grow accustomed to that feeling of fullness, of being stretched within, of a part of him pulsing inside her.

She swept her hands down his back, careful not to scratch the vulnerable crisscrossing scars there. He still made effort to keep his back turned from her lest she see those marks clearly, but it was enough that he let her soothe his memories with touch. His body was a timeline of the atrocities he had faced during his lifetime. The twisted scars upon his calve from being shot years ago, the more recent gash upon his side, and the marks that encircled both wrists – all were a testament that he had _survived._

She hoped he never had reason to suffer again. She would do everything in her power to see their lives together become only happy ones.

Including leaving Paris.

His broad hands came to rest behind her knees, and he drove her legs upward, opening her more to his languorous strokes. She was already sensitive, and the slowness of his movements made her feel every glide of skin on delicate skin. One of his forearms braced at her head, and his other hand caressed her cheek, her side, her breasts, and curled into her hair.

She was intensely aware that he watched her face, his golden eyes fixated upon her every response. It was how he knew the moment she began to sweep across the edge – his attention to how she began to suck in a shaky breath or clench her thighs or point her toes. He knew when he could increase his pace, driving in and out of her with surging furor that caused her own cresting to rise.

"Erik, Erik, oh Erik," she said between whimpers torn from her throat. She could no longer stand his scrutiny, not in the moment she lost herself, and pressed her face against his arm. All she could do was cling to him as he shifted his focus to his own needs, the fierce snapping of his hips almost too much to withstand.

When he spent himself, he collapsed more atop her, still bracing with one arm so as not to crush her. "My dove," he murmured, stroking her hair.

She kissed his arm, loving that he remained inside her. "I will miss such moments."

"We could stay another day? Another week?"

"You know we can't." She squeezed her thighs and took delight in the little gasp he made. "We must get up, and we must dress, _and_ we must leave, or I will lose my nerve and want to stay here forever."

"And you have somewhere to go, yes?" The look he gave her made her cut her own eyes away, her guilt rising.

"Yes," she admitted.

He kissed her long and slow and then pulled from her gently. "I will start your bath, beloved."

Although she would not want him to catch her staring openly, she did peer after him as he made his way off the bed. He quickly swept on his own robe, but not before she caught a glimpse of the mass of scars across his back. But more noticeably, she appreciated the lean sight of him, the way his broad shoulders narrowed to his hips, the long powerful thighs, the flexing of his behind as he walked. She bit her bottom lip and squeezed her thighs together and almost called him back.

He went to his own bathroom and presently she heard the tap running. He must have quickly washed himself because when he returned, his sparse hair was damp, and rivulets of water clung to the triangle of skin above his robe. She stretched out the last bit of sleep from her limbs, aware of Erik watching her, and made her way to the bathroom. She pinned up her hair, enjoyed the warm water, and stepped out.

Erik was gone, along with the clothes he had left laid out for this morning. Her own neat stack of clothing awaited her, and she pulled on the mourning attire that now felt as familiar as any other outfit she might wear. The morning would be chilly, and so she traded out her usual silk stockings for woolen ones and took up the black fur muff Erik had purchased her last week.

He awaited her in the kitchen, finishing his own coffee. When he saw her, he poured her a cup, fixed it the way she liked, and pressed it into her hands.

"We must make haste, I fear," he said, rinsing out his own cup. "The hour passes, and Daroga will already be waiting."

She took a few sips. "I hate that we must rush."

"Is it a rush, however, to do what we have planned for quite some time, yes? I remember hearing you biding everything in the house goodbye last night."

She flushed; she thought he had been reading. "Like you bid goodbye the piano?"

He shrugged broad shoulders. "I built the beast with my own hands. I am entitled to such a display of affection."

"I suppose so." She grinned and finished her coffee as he checked their home one more time, made certain all the hearths were cool and candles snuffed out.

When at last he approached with her cloak, she knew it was time.

They made their way across the lake, taking the longer route through the Palais Garnier instead of through the sewer. Christine breathed deeply, wanting to commit to memory the crispness of the air upon her cheeks, the quiet pinging of droplets onto stone. She clutched Papa's violin in her lap and stared up at the man steadily pushing them across the still water and felt the wetness upon her face before she realized she was crying.

Erik's hand was tender as he wiped away her tears. "I am so sorry, little bird, that these are the circumstances into which you have married."

"Hush," she admonished him. "We have already discussed this at length, haven't we?"

Dutifully, he lapsed into silence and merely kissed under each of her eyes before taking the violin from her and guiding the two of them to the surface.

Nadir was pulling a stagecoach alongside the sidewalk as they approached. Cesar chomped at the bit in his mouth alongside a dark brown draft horse. Their luggage was piled high atop the carriage, having been packed there last night.

Erik slid the violin under one of the seats before climbing to clasp hands with the Persian. "Any trouble, Daroga?"

"Only that the streets are quickly becoming busy," Nadir said, tugging a bit to reign in the impatient Cesar. "I've had to cycle around the nearby blocks to not seem suspicious. Best we are off."

Erik gave Christine a hand and then slid within the cabin behind her. "Ready?" he asked.

She knew the question was two-fold, but all she could do was nod.

The carriage lurched forward.

The ride north to Montmartre Cemetery took about a half hour. Christine held onto Erik's hand, needing the firm grip of his sure fingers. He had prodded her for weeks to make this visit, and now that they were leaving, her decision had been forced.

Surrounded as it was by a high stone wall covered in browned vines, Montmartre Cemetery had only one entrance. The large gate was open, and Nadir pulled them through. Christine took a long, steadying breath upon seeing the amalgam of stone tombs, some only large enough for the body within, some a family plot rising high above the top of the carriage.

Nadir pulled Cesar and the other horse to a halt. "This is as far as I can go," he said quietly.

Christine understood. The Persian must stay with their belongings lest thieves were lurking in the early morning. She unlatched the door herself and stepped out, the chilly air hitting her face. An icy fog lay low across the stone pathways, enveloping around each tomb like a gray blanket.

She heard the crisp-slide of shoes upon stone before she looked over to see Erik striding up beside her. "I thought you would stay inside?" she said, eyes widening. Her heart leapt with hope, but she was surprised to see him so willing to risk being seen, even with the mask that left his mouth bare.

He extended his elbow to her. "How could I allow my wife to do this alone?"

"T-Thank you so much." She took his offered arm, and the two of them stepped away from the carriage.

They walked in silence for a while, making their way along the narrow paths, the fog kicking up around their black cloaks. Erik's hat was pulled low over his mask, but they met no one on their journey, no one else wanting to brave the frosty air.

"It seems like a lifetime ago," she said, "that moment he was taken from him. Sometimes I think I will still see him come around a corner or that I will hear his voice calling me."

"Echoes of the past."

"Yes. I have dreaded this moment."

He laid a gloved hand atop hers at his elbow. "I know. However, I would never have let you leave the city without it."

"I appreciate that." She gave him a sad smile. "I long for him so much sometimes I wonder how I will stand the pain. You are my family now, and I am so grateful for you – you know how I feel. But being without parents…"

"I do understand, little bird, this longing of yours."

Erik had spoken so little of his past. Every so often, a detail would slip past his lips, a bubble up of things that had occurred in his life that he could no longer hide from her. She knew he was an orphan since birth, but he had only hinted at how terrible his childhood had been.

"Give me time," he had begged after she had gathered the courage to ask him to tell her more about himself. "You own my body, mind, and soul, Christine, but revealing all that I have been…."

She had cut him off with a gentle finger against his lips. "We have our whole lives to know each other. It is enough that you are here with me now."

She glanced up at her husband striding beside her through the cemetery. "I suppose my fear runs a bit more twisted that simply being without him. Sometimes I worry the sight and sound of him will fade from my memory over time, and he will truly be gone from this world." She shook her head. "I don't know if I am explaining what I mean fully. People truly fade away when we forget them, right? What if I forget all of those details about Papa that made him so real to me?"

"That would never happen," Erik said with conviction. "Your soul calls to those that you love, and you hold so tightly to anything that matters to you. To exist in your heart is to exist forever."

The look shining in his eyes threatened to bring the lurking tears in her eyes to the surface. But she did not want to cry now – she was long past weeping for what could not be changed.

They halted before a tomb clearly less weathered than those around it. The inscription at the top read DAAE in large, intricate lettering. The white marble was smooth and unblemished by moss. It was a tall, narrow structure much like those around it – a family plot with a beautiful blue door leading inside.

"I thought perhaps you may want to be buried with him one day," Erik explained, seeing her questioning look. "A morbid idea, yes, but an option I wanted you to have."

"How many people can… fit?" she asked, finding her voice.

"Four, likely."

She gave a relieved sigh. "I would love to return here to be with him, but more than anything, I would want to be with _you_."

"I would be honored." He pulled a small key from his waistcoat and unlocked the door to the crypt.

Only one stone coffin lay within – CHARLES DAAE engraved upon the foot. A cross lay atop the front. The words "Beloved Husband and Father" were carved into the stone. The setting was as homey as Christine could have designed for her father, and certainly far better than she could have afforded. The solid structure would keep the elements from weathering his tomb.

She moved inside and kneeled, placing a hand upon his name while Erik waited courteously just beyond the crypt.

"Hello, Papa," she said. "I'm sorry it took so long for me to finally come to say goodbye. I think I worried that coming here would make your passing seem too real for me to handle. It still hurts so much to have lost you. I think it always will."

She traced the edges of his given name. "I wish I could have done something to stop what happened to you, but I can see now that it wasn't my fault that I wasn't stronger. And it certainly was not your fault. We were both caught up in circumstances beyond our control, and I have to stop thinking _what if._ "

She flicked away a stray tear, the dampness darkening the finger on her glove. "I have grown so much since that day. I want you to know that I am happy, Papa. He is so, so good to me. I hope you are up there with Mama, and I hope both of you are proud of me."

Straightening, she pressed a hand to the top of his coffin. "We are leaving Paris today. While Raoul's mother spoke to the newspapers clearing our name, Raoul's brother is relentless. We fear for the Girys now, and so we have made it clear that we have left the city. I think we may head south, and maybe we will contact Monsieur Martel if we feel the need."

She cut herself off, realizing she was beginning to ramble. She took a long breath, the air cool within her lungs, and let it out slowly.

"It's time to go, Papa. I… I'm not sure where this journey will take us or when I will be able to return to see you, but I will carry you in my heart whenever I go." Her mother's ring was a steady weight around her finger. She felt it through her glove and closed her eyes and simply _remembered_. Then she opened her eyes, clear and wide.

"I love you, Papa. Goodbye."

And she turned and left the crypt.

Erik locked the door behind her. Instead of offering his elbow this time, he put one of his arms around her, strong and sure. Neither of them spoke on their way back to the carriage, but they did not need to, their feelings unspoken.

As they pulled through the gate of the cemetery, the only sounds were the horses' clopping hooves and the creaking of the wooden carriage. Erik's thumb stroked the back of one of her hands.

After a while, she lifted the curtain aside to peer through the window. They had reached the outskirts of the city. The morning sun gave everything a clean, golden glow. Christine felt a few notes rise within her throat, and she hummed a tune that caught in her head.

The fog was lifting.

* * *

 **Oh my word, the fic is DONE. My thanks to everyone who has reviewed this beast of a fic for the past year. Your thoughts have kept me going! Special thanks to Wheel of Fish, who consistently listens to me complain, brainstorm, and give word counts.**

 **Who knows what will be next? Follow me on Tumblr for ramblings and sneak-peeks of whatever I'm up to. I don't bite - hard.**


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